The Persistence of Memory
by neutral
Summary: The Boy Who Lived disappeared during the TriWizard Tournament, and Voldemort is discovered dead. A year later, a boy named James with no memory of his past is living in a muggle orphanage. [currently undergoing revision. chapter 11 uploaded]
1. persistence of the past

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n [1] _Potter's Fields _- a burial ground for unidentified people. During World War I when civilians were driven from their homes, people would bury these homeless people in public or donated land without grave markers.

Named after the surrealism painting _The Persistence of Memory_ by Salvador Dali

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter one - persistence of the past

_Someone once told me the worst fate anyone can suffer is to die without a person crying for him. He told me that that person must have been truly miserable if not even his mother would mourn for him at his death. He told me that that person must be very lonely, if not even one person shed a tear when he slipped quietly away._

_We live to be remembered, after all. _

_We grope for the desperate hope that we had been wanted and loved in life. That we would be missed if we were gone. That we, fearing death, would force others to fear with us as we suffered. It's in our nature to want to be needed._

_But that's selfish, isn't it?_

_Why would you want the people who love you to suffer?_

_When I die, I hope no one would cry for me. I hope no one will remember me. I hope my name will just fade with the rest of the faceless, nameless strangers buried in those potter's fields, rotting away in their unmarked graves._

_I want to be forgotten after I die._

_- James [ July 1st ] [ St. MaryAnn's Hospital ]_

Things always had a way of reorienting themselves around gaps. As long as there was more who wanted move forward, those who were left were always dragged along. It was like taking a pebble out of the stream; everything else just moves in to fill up that hole. It felt like they were the only ones still stomping around trying to kick up the water. 

Only a year, and now everyone was moving along as though nothing had ever gone wrong. '_Oh yes, there used to be a sixth bed in the boy's dormitory, but it's gone now, and did you know how hard the potions assignment was?_' They were tiptoeing around it like he'd never existed when just a year ago, Rita Skeeter had planted his face on every newspaper across the nation. 

It made Hermione want to cry sometimes.

The books were all slipping in the new additions to history. When Ron first read the new edition of _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, he tore some pages to pieces and flung the entire book into the fire. Harry was only that valuable, wasn't he? He played his part and gallantly disappeared when he should have. He was brave. He was clever. He was a hero. In another thirty years, his name will be something everyone swore on. 

But would they remember that he wasn't The-Boy-Who-Lived but Harry? That he had a favorite chair in the common room? That he loved to fly and he was an utter fanatic about quidditch? That he would stay up in the middle of the night trying to finish homework because he was lazy sometimes?

_… it wasn't fair…_

"Hermione?"

She jumped, and the vial of ink she had been staring numbly at tumbled out of her hands and splashed across the parchment.

"Sorry!" she said quickly, and fumbled for the glass vial. It shattered on the floor before she could catch it, while her books were knocked to the ground in the attempt. The students in the small class turned in her direction quizzically and Hermione blushed. "Sorry Professor, I-"

Professor Lupin said nothing; instead, he knelt beside her to gather her books. Hermione winced. Somehow, it felt hundreds of times worse when the teachers pitied her rather than ignored her.

"It's all right," he replied, setting the books on her desk and giving her a searching look. Only he could stare without being obtrusive, but Hermione still felt frustrated by it. "I only wanted to ask if you knew where Ron was."

"Oh." She glanced around and suddenly noticed that there were no redheads in the Defense classroom. "I didn't even know he wasn't here. I thought…"

_Professor Lupin's class was one of the few classes Ron actually goes to._ Hermione bit her lip nervously.

"You may go look for him, if you'd like," Professor Lupin offered, quietly.

Hermione couldn't help but wince again at the deep concern in his voice. It was very much like him to be so lenient on them, especially Ron, who had come close to failing many times. Hermione wondered if perhaps he felt a certain duty to them after last year and the tragedy that befell the Third Task. Professor Lupin had no reason to return to Hogwarts after he resigned, yet he did. Had it been for them? 

Hermione really wished he hadn't. Looking at him always made her think of Harry.

"Thank you," she said finally, and pushed her chair back. 

The class broke into whispers when she gathered her things and left. 

It wasn't hard to find Ron. He was at the corridor that Harry had heard the basilisk second year- Hermione came to associate this place as a beating block for whenever Ron was angry, making enough racket to shatter rocks. Hermione hesitated by the archway and watched a battered divination textbook slide across the floor. Panting, Ron heaved it up and flung it against the wall.

"Ron-" Hermione broke off when the book thudded against the wall again.

"I really wish she'd die, Hermione," Ron hissed, his voice thick with venom. "I wish she'd just fly somewhere and die!"

"No, you don't."

Sighing, Ron threw the remains of his textbook on the ground and sank down besides it, breathing hard.

"I never thought I could hate a professor more than Snape," he mumbled, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. 

She placed the book bag beside the archway and moved to sit beside her friend. Being with Ron felt comforting. After everything that they've been through together, just being close to him, last remaining friend, felt reassuring. Even if Ron had grown even more volatile than before… 

"What happened in divination?" Hermione asked, softly. 

Ron shrugged, kicking at his books with the heel of his shoe. 

"Trelawney was just being a bitch."

"Oh." 

This statement basically translated to _'Professor _Trelawney _was preaching about how she always knew Harry would die a gruesome and bloody death.'_ The first time she had said it Ron had been taken out of class for throwing the scented candles at her face. 

Hermione wished she had been there to do the same. And maybe even say something scalding to the headmaster. She had been wanting to for months. 

Dumbledore had failed all her expectations. He had proved just how much of the respect that he had was undeserved. She had been so certain he would be able to protect the students… Harry above all. 

But when everything fell apart… when Harry vanished, the headmaster just ran around in circles with the rest of the professors like headless chickens. A paper tiger… that's all he was. 

Hermione twisted her sleeve between her fingers, listlessly, angry and frustrated, but unsure of how to express it. 

Ron probably despised them more than she did. He was like a runaway wildfire that had no sense of direction; lashing out sporadically with nothing to latch onto. All Hermione could feel was a lingering sense of emptiness that had replaced the desperate hope, helpless fear, and intense regret that consumed her this past year. 

"She's on about it every day!" Ron suddenly hissed. He clenched his fists, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles cracked. "_Every single day_! 'Oh, my inner eye had foreseen it! Oh, it was so tragic! Oh, I saw his body crumble into ashes! He was such the martyr!' I really want to kill her sometimes, Hermione. I swear, I want to push her out the window or something, just to make her _shut up_!"

Hermione shuddered. "No, you don't. Ron, it's… it's pointless. Just drop the class, okay?"

Ron suddenly deflated and buried his head in his hands. "I can't," he said, his voice muffled. "Harry and I took that class." 

_Harry…_ She had been avoiding that name for hours. She had waked up that morning determined not to think of him on the very day of his disappearance. It was suppose to be symbolic. She was supposed to put the past behind her today, and move on before it drowned her like it was drowning Ron.

"Do you think… he's really dead?" Ron suddenly whispered. The anger was gone, and there was only dread in those brown eyes now.

Hermione twisted her sleeve until it felt as though the fabric might rip. Ron would hate her if she ever admitted to losing hope, but it seemed so_ impossible. _Especially after the fire. The blood. And the state of Harry's wand… it…

"I don't know," Hermione admitted with a small grimace. "They never found Harry's… Harry's…" She couldn't quite bring herself to say corpse.

"He better be alive," Ron said with a grim determination that was frightening.

The silence that settled over them felt suffocating.

Hermione sighed, and let her eyes wander distractedly at the ceiling. Everything was changed so completely with just Harry gone. He had always been the quiet one, but his presence was always just… _there_. It wasn't overwhelming, or particularly striking. But the moment he was taken away, it felt like their entire world was turned inside out and their insides were getting constantly, painfully burned. 

Hermione willed the scratchiness in her throat away. "Do you miss him?"

"It's impossible not to." Ron turned away. "I… I wish… he wasn't The-Boy-Who-Lived. Just Harry. Then… then…" he broke off and blinked very fast. "I wish Cedric was the one gone and not Harry." 

Hermione bit her lip hard. "No, you don't."

Ron scowled. "Harry's gone because he tried to help _him_."

"It's not his fault!" Hermione said firmly. "There's no one to blame."

"How can you say that?" Ron hissed. "It was so obvious _something_ was wrong with the tournament. We figured it out after the first task and all the teachers were parading around like everything was perfectly normal! _Someone _should have done _ something_!"

"The cup placed Harry into a binding contract!" Hermione protested. "Even if they wanted to take Harry out of the tournament, they couldn't!"

"Someone should have done something…" Ron protested again, his voice dying.

They were both silent again. Hermione was afraid to speak; with Ron so volatile and so desperate for _someone _to hate, she didn't know if there were anything that could be said that would change anything. There was no one to blame, and even if there were, it was too late… Hermione looked at her hands and tried to think about the books on the ground and the homework she had yet to do. Two sets of footsteps echoed through the corridor. Hermione glanced up, and instantly, she wished she hadn't. 

"Classes ended only minutes ago, but the two of you are two corridors from the dungeons?" Oddly enough, Professor Snape's voice lacked its characteristic sarcasm. "I assume you did not go to class?"

Ron's head snapped around at Professor Snape's voice. Hermione reached out and gripped his wrist hard.

"I dismissed them early." Professor Lupin stepped into the corridor behind him and smiled at Hermione warmly.

Ron's expression darkened at his lie. If Professor Lupin had noticed, he didn't show it, but continued to follow the potions master. _Is it time for the Wolfsbane?_ Hermione wondered, idly. She kept silent, eager to be overlooked, desperately hoping Ron would as well.

Professor Snape walked pass them without a second glance.

Another reminder of how everything has changed… Snape barely even acknowledged that they existed in his class anymore. Hermione wondered if it was because he actually felt pain at Harry's disappearance, or if he just didn't feel as though they were worthy to be noted without Harry alongside them.

"And I was so sure you actually liked Lupin's class," Snape suddenly remarked as he stepped around Ron's scattered books. "Perhaps, Weasley, you should attend his class seeing as that is likely to be the only one you may be able to pass this year."

Hermione glanced at Ron fearfully and cringed when she saw the familiar spark in his eyes.

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Abruptly, Ron wrenched free of Hermione's restraining grip and scrambled to his feet. 

Snape paused and turned around slowly. His face was completely unreadable. Professor Lupin fell still beside them.

"This is a wonderful year for you, isn't it? Harry's finally _gone_!" Ron was racing to the brink of explosion. "You've been trying to get rid of him every single year, and now you've finally succeeded, right? Aren't you happy? Aren't you? I mean, you tried so hardto make Harry's life miserable. You should be so _delighted _ now…"

He bent down for a book, and, realizing in a moment what he was intending, Hermione caught his shoulder and pulled frantically.

"Ron, stop it!" she whispered, tugging him back. "Let's just go!"

"No! I'm not going. He should go!"

"Ron—" Hermione began, desperately. 

"Ron, Hermione, perhaps you should go up to your dormitory," Professor Lupin said quietly. He sounded more strained than comforting, but Hermione didn't even try to wonder what could be passing through his mind now. Remus picked up Hermione's discarded book bag and held it out to her, and Ron's glare quickly deepened.

"Would you stop that?" he hissed.

Professor Lupin stilled.

"You're being all nice to us, like you're some advisor or a shrink or _something_. It's annoying!" Abruptly, Ron slapped the bag out of Professor Lupin's hand, his shoulders shaking in warning that he was close to shattering. "Stop it! Why did you come back? Why couldn't you come back last year? I mean, if you could come back now even if you are a werewolf, then obviously, you could have come back for the tournament."

Hermione winced. _Don't…_ she felt like screaming aloud. All of those possibilities made no difference anymore. Couldn't Ron see that no matter how many people he blamed and hated, Harry wouldn't come back? 

Biting her lip, Hermione risked a glance at Professor Lupin and inwardly cringed when she noticed how pale he had become.

"No," Hermione whispered. "Ron… just stop!"

"If you didn't resign, then we wouldn't have had Crouch, then Harry wouldn't even have been added to the entire mess last year! He wouldn't have been portkeyed to You-Know-Who, and he wouldn't have disappeared." Ron pushed Hermione's hand away when she tried to restrain him again. Professor Lupin simply stood there, silent. "You shouldn't have left. Harry would have been okay if you hadn't left-"

"Thirty points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and detention," Professor Snape said very softly.

With a bitter glare, Ron snapped around and almost snarled at Professor Snape. "That's pretty much all you professors are capable of doing," he bit out vehemently. "Other than that, you can't do anything useful. Take more points, or give more detentions. I don't care."

Hermione felt herself strung to the point of breaking then. A pinching feeling rose in her throat, and she swallowed it, but water was beginning to pool in her eyes. A second later she was crying without meaning to. Loud, breathless sobs wrenched out of her and hot tears washed down her face. 

"Please, please, let's just go," she pleaded breathlessly. It was so utterly humiliating to break out in tears then, but she couldn't stop the torrent of tears pooling in her eyes. Sniffling quietly, she wiped at her face with her sleeves and felt her face flush in embarrassment.

Ron immediately became quiet. Her vision was completely blurred and she couldn't quite make out the expression on his face, but there was a resigned sag to his shoulders that was too obvious to miss. Without a word, Ron took her by the hand and quickly led her away. Biting her lip, Hermione looked back over her shoulder at the corridor and saw Professor Lupin bent over, slowly gathering the scattered books from the ground.

Sirius passed through the quiet side of the park, weaving around the small group of children that were gathered at the edge of the lake. They were skimming rocks, though not with the greatest success. Sirius stole a moment to watch them until one of them noticed and pointed at him and they all skirted away. 

He sat down at the edge where the children had vacated and folded his hands over his knees. Sirius looked across the park, musing over how small it looked in comparison to the ones he was used to around his own home. As he sat there, he tried to admire the view. He had come to this same park in Surrey three years ago in his animagus form. He had seen it in black and white then and found it breathtaking. He wondered why it didn't look the same in color.

The sun was beginning to set. The reflections from the lake were quite blinding, so he settled on watching the swans that were pruning themselves along the banks. They looked overfed, but Sirius shuffled through his coat pockets for some food nonetheless. The bread he had tucked in that morning was gone, but he couldn't recall when he ate it.

He picked up a stone and skimmed it. It bounced twice and sank. It would have bounced all the way across the lake with a rubber charm, but he didn't have a wand with him and he couldn't remember the incantation.

Whispers sounded behind him. Sirius glanced over his shoulder and noticed the children huddled behind the trees, watching him. They wanted their spot back it seemed, but no one was brave enough to approach him. They were daring one another and laughing, but their eyes glanced at his worn and patched coat and unkempt hair fearfully. Sirius stood up and left.

_Do I look that frightening? _He wondered. Sirius examined himself in the reflection of the lake and fingered his graying locks. It was hard to tell through the ripples.

Well, he had to look better than those first few weeks after Azkaban. Or at least better than the madman who first appeared in front of Harry and his friends at the Shrieking Shack.

_Harry… _ What would Harry think of him now? He had glanced at himself in a mirror a few days ago and knew he didn't look any better than he did three years ago. There were gray streaks in his hair now. The beard was gone, but once in a while he would forget to shave, and the patches of uneven stubbles probably looked worse. Sirius absently ran his fingers over his unshaven chin. It seemed like time for a shower. Funny, how his sanitary habits were even worse after his name was cleared. He washed himself more when he was a fugitive.

_Harry would be upset…_ Harry would tell him to take better care of himself, though not in those words. Harry would be vaguer, and he would look at Sirius with the same look he had given him back at that cave in Hogsmead when Harry brought him that chicken. _ Well_, Sirius would tell him, _at least I'm not living off rats._

But thinking of rats disrupted his mood and the disapproving look Harry was giving him hollowed out into a ghastly look of hatred.

_You shouldn't have spent so much time chasing after that rat,_ Harry was saying to him. _You should have spent more time with me. _

Sirius began walking faster, trying to block out everything except the feel of the rocks under the soles of his shoes.

_I spent more time with Snape than with you, and you were supposed to be my godfather, _ Harry kept whispering. His voice sounded heartbreakingly sad. _You should have been there to help me…_

Sirius didn't know what Harry looked like when he was upset, so his mind kept substituting the expression Harry wore when they first met at the Shrieking Shack. But that expression didn't quite match the voice and Sirius was having a hard time remembering the details. When Harry was angry, his green eyes would narrow into slits; when he was upset, they'd grow large and hollow, like fractured marbles; but when he was upset and angry, the emotions would fly across his face… and Sirius couldn't recall what Harry was like at those times. He'd have to look at the pensive again.

But Harry would look different from those images now. He'd be fifteen. How would he look at fifteen? Sirius tried to remember how James looked but that was even more difficult. And Harry was always a lot smaller and thinner than his father. Maybe at fifteen, Harry would finally get his growth spurt. He'd have to go through the gangly stage when he'd trip over his own feet, falling all over the place. 

Sirius grinned.

At fifteen, Harry would be slightly taller, still shorter than Ron, but at least taller than Hermione. His hair would still be unruly as ever and his eyes still brilliantly green. He would have gained a little weight, like a normal seeker-thin, and not like the Remus-thin he was back during the Triwizards Tournament and…

_The tournament_. Suddenly, all his musings broke into tiny pieces and scattered. _The tournament, the tournament, the tournament…_

He knew something was wrong with the tournament. All the evidence had been gathering that year, and everything was just balanced on that final Third Task. He was a fool for just sitting there and _hoping_. Those things shouldn't have happened, but they did, and it all went _wrong_…

_Harry… kidnapped… along with that Diggory boy…_

It took Dumbledore five hours to track where it took them. He had never felt more aggravated with the headmaster in his life. By then, Dumbledore's efforts weren't even necessary. A small, isolated muggle town somehow caught fire only an hour after Harry's disappearance. The muggle authorities had discovered it hours before the ministry, and found almost half the town burned to death in their homes. 

High up on the hill, in a graveyard behind a rundown church, they found the other boy. Cedric was lying face down, unconscious, behind a fallen log, the side of his head battered. When they revived him and questioned him, he could only say he heard a voice and a flash of green before Harry pushed him aside. There was all he could remember. They discovered over fifteen men dressed in the garb of death eaters, unconscious in the graveyard. 

Pettigrew was among them.

He was free, but that was the last thing on his mind then. Harry was gone, as if he just vanished into thin air. And when he heard Wormtail's confession, his blood froze cold in his veins.

Voldemort was back.

_But Harry… where was Harry…?_

The week that followed was undoubtly the worse of his life, probably even worse than the week after James and Lily had died and he was rotting in Azkaban. Then, he had something to live for and someone to hate. Who was there this time?

Then a muggle woman walking a dog discovered a long, lanky body, so thin that it was just a sack of bones with skin. The man had a flat nose and blood red eyes. And he was dead. 

Voldemort was dead. 

Harry's wand was found beside the body of his arch enemy, scratched and burned at the edges. As for the boy's whereabouts, no one knew. No one even knew if he was dead or alive. He was just. . . gone.

They searched for him, of course. But the numbers kept dwindling until it was just Dumbledore, Remus, him, and the Weasleys. Somewhere along that time, when too many people asked him if he was the one who had killed Harry Potter, and after he was forced to identify too many mutilated bodies of little boys, Sirius threw up everything and just walked away. He dug up the key to the summer house bequeathed to him by his uncle and locked himself into seclusion. He had not enough memories of his godson to keep him company, so he took what was left of Harry's possessions with him when he left. He was greedy.

_Was this giving up?_ Sirius wondered. _Would Harry hate me for it?_

"Wake up," came a rather irritated voice, followed by a few less than gently prods in the back. 

Groaning, the victim mumbled an incoherent reply before nesting himself deeper into the blankets. But he misjudged slightly when he pulled the blankets over his head and his feet were out and soaking in the morning air. Whimpering in pain, he tried to kick the covers back down.

"Wake up, James. You're going to make me late," the voice snapped again.

The boy named James curled up like a hamster under the sheets.

"Get up!" This time, the voice followed up on his aggravation with a sharp twack directed on the sleeping boy's shoulder. "This is getting really annoying."

"Ow! Okay, okay. I'm up," James grumbled, his head still hidden by the pillow. Very reluctantly, he relinquished it and groggily rubbed his green eyes before blindly shuffling around for his glasses. 

James didn't particularly like mornings. In fact, he had a horrible habit of staying up in the middle of the night, staring out the window or reading under his covers. It was a rather annoying habit for the other children in the dorm and irritated his advisor to no end, but James always tried to sneak around corners anyway. It was only his first year in the orphanage after all, so the administrator Elaine was still rather lenient. 

James stood up to stretch, and winced when he lifted his arm. "That really hurt, Will, you didn't have to hit so hard."

Will gave an indignant snort, "You wouldn't get up unless I stepped on you. When I tried to wake you up with water yesterday, Elaine made me rinse out your mattress."

"That's because you used orange juice and not water," James mumbled, pausing to give a jaw popping yawn. "Prat."

Will frowned. "That was orange juice?"

"Was that orange juice? It smelled sweet and fruity."

"I don't know. It was just sitting on the windowsill and it wasn't orange."

"You're worrying me. What color was it?"

"Light green… I think…"

James jumped, suddenly wide awake. He glanced at the windowsill and grimaced. "That was my science experiment, Will! I was raising sea monkeys in an electrolytic solution!"

"Electrolytic?" Will echoed incredulously. "They would have died anyway."

"No, not until I stuck electrodes in the water. Killing them at a later stage was the whole point of the experiment," James sighed tragically as he fished a set of clean clothes from under his bed. "Will, you idiot. You're making my bed for me."

"_What_?" Will snapped.

"Retribution." James glared at his friend with light humor as he pulled on a pair of unmatching socks. "That or you're treating me to breakfast. Take your pick."

"Tyrant."

James grinned, then quickly ducked the sock Will flung at him before limping into the bathroom. 

The floor of St. MaryAnn's orphanage was quite cold, and James tiptoed over it with some relatively clean clothes tucked under his arm. The bathroom was conveniently beside their dorm, and it was early enough in the morning that he didn't have to fight for a toilet or a sink. James dug through the shelves for his plastic cup and turned on the tap until the water ran warm.

James reached for his toothbrush, ignoring the comb completely. It never made a difference anyway, he mused as he stared into the mirror. His hair always had a windblown appearance, sticking up at every angle imaginable no matter what he did to it. It never grew any longer, and if he trimmed it… or rather, Will trimmed it for him and mad him nearly bald… it always grew out the exact same length the next day. It was rather strange, and James could never find an explanation for it.

A year ago, James had woken up in a hospital, heavily bandaged and with no memory whatsoever of who he was, where he came from, or how he came to be there. He looked ordinary enough, other than the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. When they asked him for his name, James was the first that came to mind. Since then, he was simply 'James,' and no one ever called him anything else. It was only assumed that he was around fifteen years old, but beyond that, no one could find any records on him. He had no family, no friends, no relations. He was just a boy who seemingly materialized through thin air and looked like he had been through hell along with it.

When James tried to remember anything about his past, there would be a piercing pain in his scar, as if his head was being split open with a hammer. There was a blinding green light, a high pitched laughter, then nothing. Other times, he would remember someone speaking, his own voice, and a golden glow would seep into the corners of his vision. He would have headaches for hours after though, so he just settled on not trying. Besides, it wasn't like he was unhappy. The orphanage had wonderful people, wonderful friends. 

"Will, remind me again why we're up this early," James muttered, splashing water on his face.

"Because we want to be contributing individuals to society," Will called through the door.

James groaned and scrubbed at his face angrily. "It's cruel and unusual torture, Will."

"James, you eat more donuts than we sell."

James inwardly winced. _ Well, that was true…_

"I thought we were delivering newspaper today?"

"Well, donuts are tomorrow." Will sounded quite put out.

"Oh." James could feel his stomach grumbling already.

"Don't worry, James, Christmas is only five months and five days away."

James shook his head, grinning slightly in amusement. It was just like Will to rub his face in mud like that.

It wasn't that he was particularly bitter about being forced to crawl out of bed at four in the morning to wander through some narrow streets. He was satisfied with what he had at the orphanage, but then again, he was never the type to hoard. Although he owned not a scrap to his name, he was content.

Sort of. 

Once in a while, James would feel that sometime was missing, like an incomplete puzzle, but only for a moment. 

It was just the memory loss, James decided.

*

Chapter one underwent its third revision. Hopefully, I'll work off this habit. But the previous made Ron seem too depressed, and thinking back on it, he seemed more to be someone driven with anger than with grief. It was reworked yet again, ack.


	2. persistence of fate

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n The proof is sort of existentialist. I'm not quite sure how it became attached to PoM, but surrealism rose around the same time existentialist did. Perhaps that's really the only tie into this story. I hope it makes sense.

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter two - persistence of fate

_How does one go about defining good and evil? Those two words are principles which hundreds of varying interpretations are attached. Every individual and every society have a different concept of what is wrong and what is right. As we often judge those two concepts through laws established by a ruling power, good and evil is often defined as such:_

_Good is what conforms to society's laws. Evil is what strays from society's laws._

_We are taught that slander is wrong, that bigamy is wrong, that sodomy is wrong, that fascism is wrong, and we came to believe that those ideas are natural truths. But these perceptions came to us through rules in which other men imposed on us. _

_Which parts of our beliefs are instinct and which parts are teachings? Theoretically, humans are born with little or no preset ideals. That is debatable, however, most beliefs came to us through external teachings. But thousands of years ago, the things people perceived were wrong are very different from what we perceive now._

_In that light, do we as a society have the right to label any person as good or evil? What right do we have to judge a man with the rules fixed on us by society, and punish him as we see fit, when he has merely strayed from conforming, or perhaps acting on his own beliefs independent from the whole? _

_We should not have that right. We should withdraw ourselves from the confines of society and live our life on only the fundamentals._

_We should focus only on the main essential of our being: survival. In that reality, any law or restriction of society is stripped bare from our life. The fact that we think and act is only secondary to the knowledge that we exist as a physical being. In that sense, nothing is essentially good. Nothing is essentially evil. There is only the foundation: existence. _

_How we live life is only a small aspect of how we live. Existence precedes essence. Men are born to live, and they live to die. Those aspects are the only things solid in this world. As to how we act is separate issue. A person's crimes or achievements fade in comparison to the fact that he eats, breathes, lives, and dies. _

_There is nothing good or evil, only existence and life._

_- James [ January 11th ] [ St. MaryAnn's Hospital ]_

Sirius stirred his coffee and watched it swirl with the cream. They blended after a while, so he poured in the last of the milk and swirled it again. Resting his head against his hand, he listened to the sounds of the street around him. Rain was pouring down in sheets from the sky, and even under the canopy of the café, Sirius could feel the water splashing around him. He wasn't cold though, not even in his thin, short-sleeved shirt. Azkaban was always a lot colder.

Sirius dumped the third package of sugar in the coffee and wondered if the thing was still edible. He certainly didn't feel like drinking it anymore.

"Mind if I sit here?"

It took a moment for Sirius to decide whether that voice was real or imagined. Numbly, Sirius lifted his head, vaguely surprised when a pair of familiar grayish blue eyes stared back at him intently. 

_Remus isn't suppose to be here_, Sirius' mind sluggishly decided. Without responding, Sirius let his head fall back against his hand, idly stirring the lukewarm drink again. _He is supposed to be teaching. What is he doing here?_

"Sirius?" Remus sounded cautious, as if he was prodding him for a response.

_Go away, _ Sirius wanted to tell him. _Leave me alone. _

He had that speech of Remus' memorized. If he was going to be forced to sit through another one, he'd snap. It was becoming very irritating.

"How have you been?" Remus softly asked when Sirius was still silent. 

Sirius glanced at the drink and wondered if Remus would leave him along if he flung the thing at him. Likely Remus would respond by acting as if the entire thing was accidental. Sirius began grinding the straw against the bottom of the cup, waiting for it to break and spill.

"Did you do anything interesting of the late?" Remus quietly drew a chair to sit beside him, and Sirius could feel his intent gaze on his back.

_'Oh? Something different from 'What did you have for breakfast?' and 'Are you sleeping well?' _ Sirius noted absently. Defensively, Sirius turned away and prodded at the bottom of the paper cup with the straw.

Remus frowned slightly. Leaning forward, he sharply grabbed the cup of cold coffee and dragged it away. Sirius stiffened, but didn't look up.

"Have you been doing anything interesting of the late?" Remus asked again. 

He sounded more stubborn and more professor-like, and Sirius felt a surge of irritation at that tone. It sounded so _practical_…

"I was stirring the drink until you took it a few minutes ago," Sirius said finally, turning to face his friend. 

He was surprised when he finally looked at Remus at how tired he looked, and tried to recall if the full moon was anytime near. But his memory came with too many holes and Sirius gave up.

Remus' eyes narrowed. Resignedly, Sirius leaned back and let his gaze drift out onto the street again. 

"I took a walk around a park yesterday, if that's what you want to hear." 

Remus said nothing, and for a long moment, the two sat in a heavy silence. They were too formal to be friends of over two decades, but Sirius couldn't seem to decide what he felt about it. He had never taken the time to rebuild his friendship with Remus after he escaped from Azkaban. Things had been too dangerous then. And when he was freed, everything had changed. Distractedly, Sirius twisted the straw between his fingers, restless and frustrated.

"What are you doing here?" Sirius said softly, staring at Remus from the corner of his eye. "I thought you had a class to teach." 

Remus swirled the coffee in the fraying cup, and Sirius noted with some deadened amusement that he was doing the same thing Sirius had done earlier. 

"Albus told me to take the day off," Remus muttered with a careful restraint.

_To see how you're doing…_

Those words were implied and not spoken. Sirius' expression darkened, and he jerked his head away. Leave it to the headmaster who would think he needed guidance. It seemed that everyone believed that he tittering on the edge of insanity. Even Remus believed it, and that hurt. Couldn't they see that he just wanted to be left alone?

"It's been a year, hasn't it?" Remus said softly. It wasn't really a question.

Sirius stiffened and his hand slipped to grip the edge of his chair tightly. He didn't want to be reminded of what happened. He tried so hard to escape it, but at the same time, he couldn't pass a day without thinking of it. Most of the time, he could think of nothing else. His life was in pieces, Sirius knew that just as well as anybody, but couldn't they see that this was what he wanted?

"How are Ron and Hermione?" Sirius finally asked.

Remus hesitated for a moment too long, and Sirius glanced at him out of the corner of his eye again. Remus had fallen completely still

Sirius frowned. "Did something happen?"

"Ron… he got detention today."

Sirius raised an eyebrow but didn't inquire. Not surprising, considering that boy's routine lately.

"He was angry. Divination had upset him," Remus continued softly, his eyes downcast. "Twelawney said some things that she shouldn't have. Ron didn't take it too well and he was looking for people to blame…"

"About Harry, wasn't it?" Sirius whispered stoically.

It was Remus' turn to fall silent this time. For a while, they sat listlessly, listening to dull rumble of voices that echoed around them and the drone of the passing cars. There were two boys nearby, carrying to large sacks of newspapers and lightheartedly chatting. It was odd for someone their age to be outside at this hour, especially since the muggle schools had ended last week, and Remus let his eyes linger on them for a moment in thoughtless silence.

The boy with the tattered blue shirt and unruly hair resembled Harry especially from a distance. He had the runaway hair and the round-rimmed glasses, although he was thinner and taller. Remus couldn't see the shade of his eyes from the café, but he still found himself imagining Harry in the strange boy's place.

"Delivery boys," Sirius muttered when he noticed Remus was watching. "They're distributing newspaper. The one on the right looks like Harry, doesn't he?"

Remus glanced at Sirius sharply. "You were watching them?"

"I've been sitting here for two hours, Remus. You pick up on a lot of these things." Sirius shrugged it aside; he continued to watch at the boy for a few more minutes before turning away.

Remus drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. He knew Sirius hated it whenever he touched on the subject, but it couldn't be avoided. He couldn't stand aside and watch his friend plow ahead on the road to self-destruction. He had gone too far to lose everything now. 

"Sirius, I know I've told you this before…"

"I don't need to hear it then," Sirius cut him off harshly. He was already angry and impatient, and didn't bother to hide it.

"Well, you obviously didn't because you're not doing anything about it!" Remus raised his voice warningly as his frustration grew. "It's been a year already, Padfoot…"

"I know! I can count," Sirius angrily snapped. He glowered darkly at the table.

"Albus offered you a position at Hogwarts—"

"—and I turned it down, I know that too."

Remus stood abruptly, his chair screeching against asphalt. A few customers turned their heads, watching the two in confusion. "Sirius, stop doing this to yourself. You've wasted your life for the past year. This can't go any further. You've got talents. You've got more than half your life ahead of you. Please, you can't keep doing this!"

"So you've skipped over that inspirational speech," Sirius remarked stiffly, "and all those flowery words and just jumped right at the meat this time—"

"Stop it. This isn't amusing." Remus ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "How long are you planning to live like this? Just wandering around through town and sitting in parks all day long?"

"Well, I'm finding parks very fascinating, Remus," Sirius bit out under his breath.

Remus sank back in his chair as if he suddenly deflated and leaned back with a very tired sigh. 

"Sirius," he began in a whisper, "you're my friend, my only friend, and I don't want to see you… wasting away like this. If Harry was here, he'd never…"

"Don't even start on Harry with me," Sirius hissed. There was enough venom in his voice to make Remus cringe. "Harry is not here!"

"Moping around won't bring him back," Remus said with a pained grimace. "You're wasting your life like this. It's over. You have to accept it!"

Sirius was still as if his words went right through him, his attention solely absorbed in the completely maimed straw in his hand.

"Harry isn't here," Sirius whispered distantly.

Something seemed to have closed behind Sirius' eyes. Remus fell silent when he saw it, and knew immediately that he should never have drawn Harry into the conversation. But no other name incited a reaction out of Sirius anymore. Tentatively, Remus rested a hand on Sirius' shoulder, and felt Sirius tense beneath his fingers.

Abruptly, there was a loud shout. There was a loud clang as something struck the floor none too gently, and Remus glanced over his shoulder just in time to see one of the boys who had been selling newspaper fling himself at a tall teenager. 

His professor instincts triggered, Remus immediately rushed forward. "Stop!"

*Fifteen minutes prior*

Will shifted the coarse bag on his shoulder uneasily when a few customers glanced their way. The large sack of newspaper he lugged wasn't making him any more inconspicuous, and combined with his oversized and unwashed coat, the people's wary glances were slowly melting into suspicion. 

Will elbowed James sharply. "What are you doing? We're supposed to be getting rid of the rest of this stack, not in the pharmacy…"

"Keep your voice down!" James whispered with a warning glare and a finger to his lips. Scooting his bag along the aisle with his foot, he knelt down and carefully examined the rows of medicine with a critical eye.

The store manager pushed his cart strategically opposite their aisle, as if already suspecting them to be shoplifters. Will narrowed his eyes.

"People are watching," Will hissed under his breath. "Will you _hurry_?"

James just nudged him with his foot and resumed picking up a bottle after another, reading the back inscriptions rather meticulously.

"Why are we even here? Are you sick _again_?" asked Will rather irritably. 

He was harsh, but he was inwardly anxious. James seemed to have a nonexistent immune system that loved to attract all sorts of bizarre diseases. Either he had never completely recovered from the injuries he suffered when he was found, or he had some sort of auto-immune disorder. James crashed with a fever if someone even sneezed in his direction, and in a household with over eighty children, he was almost constantly ill. 

James gave a barely discernable shrug. "Angela said she might be coming down with something. You know how it's like a chain reaction when anyone gets sick. I think the kids are going to get the first wave of it."

Will rolled his eyes skyward. "Hurry up, alright? I at least want to get rid of these papers before the morning traffic."

James hummed and went tracing down the aisles again. Will sighed and, dumping the bag unceremoniously on the floor, plopped down using it as a stool. It was going to take some time, he already knew from experience. James was obsessive when it came to medicine.

But it was expected. After all, he was practically every little child's big brother in St. MaryAnn's orphanage. Although he was one of the latest arrivals in the children's home, James had slipped right into the folds like he had belonged there all along. Will couldn't figure out how he did it. Just two months into his stay, and suddenly, James had the younger children running after him in hoards. They went to James in the middle of the night when they were ill. They ran to him for schoolwork help when they were confused. One girl even ran crying to James when she was teased for not having her hair braided like every other little girl with a mother. Will silently smirked; James was never going to live that one down.

"Will, how much do you have on you?"

Will sluggishly stared at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Four pounds, why?"

"This thing's fourteen," James grumbled with a bitter grimace. Sighing, he placed the pills back on the shelf. "And I'm in the red right now. I spent everything on next semester's books and summer reading assignments."

"Can't you use the fee wavier?"

"Not unless I'm already vomiting up my guts on their nice white tiles," James said mildly. He folded the helms of his outrageously long pants—obviously second hand, by the faded hue and ripped patches of the jeans—before standing with a wry smile. "Will, maybe if you suddenly had a seizure right here on the floor, they will give me the children's grape flavored daytime cold medicine for free." 

How could he find this funny? Will noted with some amount of annoyance. Any other person would be furious by the unfairness of the entire situation, but James just shrugged it aside like some silly joke. But James was the type who took everything in stride with his head held high and both feet planted firmly on the ground. Will was sometimes tempted to push him to see just how far James could be stretched without snapping. Perhaps some of _that_ person's famous resilience did hold true…

Will tore his thoughts away.

"So we're leaving?"

"Well… could I borrow some money?" James asked, giving his friend a sheepish smile. "I'm really hungry."

Will jumped to his feet in mock fury. "Again? You already ate before we left!"

"I had canned corn," James responded indignantly. "That doesn't count!"

Will sighed, shaking his head as he reached for his wallet. "I give up. You're the kind of person who'll make buffet owners go bankrupt."

James made a blind swipe at his friend, pretending to be hurt by the comment, but Will could tell he was inwardly laughing. James had a ridiculously large appetite, and no matter how much he ate, it never reflected in his weight. He had some sort of miracle metabolism that ate up everything like packman. He was growing, but Will found it odd that James still looked like a walking skeleton with skin. 

But then again, James was just a strange boy.

James took one step outside the pharmacy and groaned aloud. Just the day he didn't bring a coat, it decided to rain. The skies were grey and hazy; people were filtering from the streets to escape the downpour. A passing car sent a misty spray over the sidewalk.

James shivered. But then again, bringing a raincoat wouldn't have helped, James resigned decided; his had sprouted a leak somewhere in the hood so water ran down his shirt every time he wore it. But at least the newspaper would have been dry. James stiffly readjusted the sack strung from his shoulder, feeling his arm tingle.

Will not so subtly cursed under his breath. "As if those papers aren't heavy enough. Now we get water logged ones."

"Well, we'll just have to deliver them quickly," James thoughtfully mused. Hauling the coarse bag as he walked to lessen the strain on his arm, he walked to the edge of the sidewalk.

"In this weather?" Will snapped, shooting an irritable glare James' way. "We might as well leave just to spare the laundry cost."

James sighed, rolling his eyes skyward as he hoisted the bag stuffed with newspapers higher on his shoulder. The early morning chill left a dull throb in his right elbow and, with the added weight of his parcel, found it increasingly hard to find the energy to argue. Nevertheless, Will still begrudging followed him to the intersection.

The rain was beginning to pour in torrents. It was freezing. And just as an added bonus, he was standing right beside a bristling coffee shop that exuded warmth. James was pretty sure the expression on his face reflected his mindset, because people were walking around him voluntarily. 

James shivered, soaked to the skin and his vision blinded by wet glasses. Even though he was standing over the eaves of the café, he was still getting nicely drenched. His bed seemed to inviting right then. Fighting the urge to yawn, James took several deep breaths and stretched.

"You know, I had the weirdest dream last night," James said, trying to keep his mind off the vision of his bed and the thick aroma of hot coffee wafting towards him.

Will grunted. "You always have the weirdest dreams, James. I swear, you were a nutcase before you lost your memory."

"Do you want to hear it or not?" James snapped, fringing offence. 

"If you want to talk, I'm not going to stop you. Just don't make me listen."

James elbowed his friend sharply, but smiled nonetheless. He was well acquainted with his friend's sarcastic comments and ploughed blindly ahead with his tale despite Will's remark. "I dreamt that it was raining really hard, much worse than this. The wind was so strong that it was close to knocking me over." James hesitated. That was the odd thing about his dreams. He could actually feel the wind and taste the rain. Every detail was vivid, but when he woke again, he couldn't ignore the feeling of surreality. 

Will directed a pointed glare in James' way. "That's not very hard."

"Will, shut up!" James shot back, embarrassed but amused at the same time. "It really was raining unusually hard. You could barely see your hands. I was riding on a broom, flying…"

Will flinched. "You've got to be kidding. A broom, James? What are you, a witch?"

"I'm not female, if that's what you're implying," James grumbled indignantly. "Let me finish, okay? There were a lot of people watching, like it's some sort of sports event. I was flying on a broom, chasing this small and golden beetle like thing. The rain was making it nearly impossible. But for some reason, my glasses were repelling the rain or something because they weren't getting wet and I was pretty sure they were on my face. Then there was this bright lightening that lit up the sky, and I could see a shadow of this big black dog in the bleachers. Suddenly, everyone falls silent." He trailed off abruptly, brow furrowing in thought. 

Was that what happened? It felt like an icy bath washing over him in midair as the heavy coat of silence settled over the field. He suddenly felt as if he were floating. Distantly, voices…

"Well?"

James bit his lip in thought, "That's it. That's all I can remember."

"I was right, James," Will sighed dramatically. "You are a nutcase."

He knew Will meant it as a joke, but James really didn't feel like laughing. Will's words hurt even if they were teasing. Sometimes, James found himself questioning his sanity rather seriously. He had the strangest dreams, not to mention his odd, eccentric obsessions. He was never able to sleep in pitch darkness; he was utterly and completely claustrophobic; he panicked whenever people pointed a pencil at him; and he had this indescribable fondness for people with bushy red hair. 

It was strange. James couldn't figure out why those things bothered him so much.

"You know, coffee sounds so tempting right now." James purposely dragged his thoughts away. Wistfully, he watched the customers drifting in and out of the café with warm coats and steaming cups. He could smell the rich scent coffee beans, the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread; the slices of steaming buttered toasts were just lying meters away… 

  
James' stomach grumbled.

  
Will lifted an eyebrow, "That was loud. Even I heard that." 

  
"It smells really good," James groaned. "Its making my hypoglycemia act up."

Will frowned. "Don't you have medication for that?"

"It doesn't do anything. I think they only prescribed it as valid and impressive excuse to stop me from eating so much."

Will rolled his eyes.

  
James muffled another yawn, slipping his glasses aside to rub at his aching eyes, but a passerby knocked into his elbow hard. James staggered when the weight of the newspaper combined with the force of the collusion threw him back

James turned around, muttering embarrassed apologies, but his words faded at the familiar face of his classmate. Flushing in humiliation, James swallowed back his anger and met the older boy's condescending stare in silence. On all days to meet his worst tormentor from school, it just had to be a rainy day when he's soaked, sleepy, and irritable. 

"You!" Will hissed sharply beside him.

"Stunning observation." Somehow, the boy managed a dazzling smile in the face of Will's scowl. "I had not expected the two of you all the way out here."

Will took a step forward, but James quickly placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. 

Forcing faltering smile on his face, James managed a stiff smile. "Good morning to you."

Smiling, the boy leaned against a nearby chair, already preparing himself for a long conversation. "Rather clumsy today, James? Is it too early in the morning for you?"

"It's always too early," James murmured with a good natured shrug.

"I don't understand you at all James," The boy seemed to have lost some of his good humor. "How did you manage to pass every single class last year while snoring through the class?"

He did _not _snore while he slept, James thought with annoyed defensiveness, although he did sometimes drift in class… James felt like sinking to the ground in embarrassment. 

"Obviously differently from you," James said slowly, trying to hide his blush. "There's no daddy to hold my hand while I'm taking tests."

The boy shrugged. "Yes, but you walk into class bumping into doors. That was the key moment of my weeks last year: James bumping into the door, guaranteed, every Monday morning."

Will huffed. "James does _ not—_"

"Well, sometimes I do," James admitted with a shrug. "But it couldn't be worse than what you do. Listen, we're busy at the moment. You may not have many things to do, but Will and I certainly do, and we don't have the time to entertain you. Do you have somewhere to go?" 

His patience was wearing thin, and the weather was weighing it down. James wasn't rapidly falling out of his calm mood.

"Don't worry about me. Where are the two of you off to?"

"We're not going anywhere at the moment," James said. "We're waiting out the rain."

"Look, would you go _away _already?" Will snapped. James pinched his arm in warning, but his friend shrugged him off.

The glance the older boy shot at him and Will was a lot less friendly this time. "I thought you might like to know, James, my father hates his papers wet. Try to keep those out of the rain," he said shortly.

Will visibly seethed, but James firmly tightened his grip on his friend's arm. Creating trouble directly outside a store and gathering a crowd was the last thing James wanted to do; Will already had a terrible reputation. It was foolish picking fights off the street, and James knew better than to explode when provoked. But he still couldn't suppress a surge of irritation. 

"I'll try," James said quietly. "Look, just say what you came here to say and leave, alright? I'm sure you're not enjoying our company any more than we are enjoying yours."

The boy just shrugged but made no move to walk away. "Congratulations on being the honor student this year."

"Thank you," James replied stiffly.

"It was quite a shock, I suppose, considering how you began the year with a mind devoid of any intelligent thought."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," James whispered through gritted teeth. 

"It's quite suspicious," he continued with narrowing eyes. "I'd be careful if I were you, James, unless you've already forgotten what happened last spring."

"Are you threatening him?" Will hissed, finally ripping his arm free of James' grasp. "What gives you the right? You asshole think you're just better than us because, you bastard… still a little baby whining to his mother… still breast feeding, aren't you?"

James flinched at Will's choice of language and discreetly tried to look away as several heads severed around to stare at them in shock.

The boy glared. "They let trash like you into our school. They should have expelled you with Eric."

James winced, clenching his fists as he tried to rein his anger. "Eric never cheated. I know you hate him, but getting him expelled is going too far."

Despite the accusation, the boy seemed more amused. "You did his work for him, didn't you?"

"And you don't have people doing your homework?" James snapped back. "I did Eric's homework only because he had been ill. There was no harm in that."

"Eric should have been expelled years ago," the boy bit out. "He should never have been in the school in the first place, and neither should people like you."

"You have serious territorial problems," James ground out. "Will, we're leaving."

Grinding his teeth, James tried to forcibly drag his friend away. Will was quite hard to move, and James dug his nails into his friend in warning.

"We're going," James whispered.

A hand caught his elbow, and before James could even react to it, Will had wrenched free. The hand on his arm was slapped away and Will began shouting.

"Stay away from us!" Will shoved the boy back with enough force to send him stumbling.

James inwardly cringed. "Will—"

"James you should watch yourself and your friend," the boy snapped decisively. "If you're not careful, you might just get yourselves expelled next year."

With an enraged snarl, Will flung the bag of newspapers from his shoulder and lunged at the taller boy. Before James could even react or to stop him, Will had other boy pinned against the wall flinging heavy punches at his face. Shouts of alarm rose up around them.

James threw up his hands in dismay. _Oh hell…_

"Will, stop!" James dropped his sack to the rainy ground and threw his weight against his friend to knock him aside. Catching Will by the arm, he jerked him back. "You're being an idiot. Stop it!"

But Will was uncontrollable when angry, trashing against James' hold despite his shouts. Will shrugged James' hand off with ease, and James nearly slipped time when Will lunged forward. 

The older boy suddenly found his mind again. At the small distraction James' offered, he shoved Will back and scrambled to his feet. Blood streamed from his nose and pooled at a corner of his mouth, but he seemed too infuriated to do anything except stare at them scathingly. James dimly wondered why he was so stupid as to not run.

"I can't believe you! I can't believe they let people like _you_ in school!" he slurred out angrily. "All of you…"

Will's knuckles silenced him, and the boy's words choked off in a startled yelp. 

Kicking aside the scattered newspaper, James pried his friend back. "No, Will…" 

"Stop!" 

The unfamiliar shout caught James by surprise, and the grip he had on his friend slackened when James tried to look over his shoulder at the stranger. Will's arm lashed back and caught him completely unaware. James fell backwards, winded and stumbling. His back struck something with a solid clang, James slipped to the floor feeling as if someone had slammed into him with a red, hot cow prod. For a long moment, all James could do was fold in on himself and gasp for breath. 

He had slammed into one of those metal café tables, James noted with pain-muddled bewilderment. _Of all the things to run into... gosh, I don't think I can get up…_

He clutched his side wondered how Will's fistfight was progressing. He couldn't quite manage to lift his head. _It hurt. Damn it. _Gradually, he noticed the feet at the corner of his vision, and dimly realized someone was watching him. Inwardly, James groaned. He probably knocked over the man's breakfast by falling into his table. _What a way to start the day… _

Grimacing, James slowly lifted his head, his gaze following the faded, black pants graying from numerous washings to the thin, plain shirt uncovered by a coat—_wasn't he cold?_—to the stranger's face. James paused when he looked at the man's face. It was framed with tangled black hair, but that wasn't shocking; it was his eyes that made James' gut wrench. There had to be something wrong with them. They were like holes punched in cardboard—sunken and overshadowed, and yet unnaturally pale and blue. 

The man's features seemed to have frozen into an expression of unimaginable shock. _Do I look that strange? _James returned the man's stare with some confusion.

The stranger drew a sharp breath and took an unsteady step back.

"Harry?" he whispered.

*


	3. persistence of misfortune

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n Revised

Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter three - persistence of misfortune

_What happens to you after you die? _

_Cynthia asked me that question today. I wanted to tell her: 'you die…_

_'People are sad. They look away. They become silent. Sometimes, they might even cry. Then, they stop talking about you and begin to forget…_

_'You start to fade in their memories, and they begin to subconsciously add details to your blurring face that weren't there before, substitute phrases into your fragmenting sentences that wasn't what you said before. They cut and paste to your image, until you are no longer you but the person they perceived you as. _

_'People remember you not as who you are but who you appear to be, after all.'_

_But it's not really fair, is it? What if the person you appeared to be was not you at all? What if you wanted to be remembered for something different, but no one remembered that aspect of you?_

_If people cannot forget me after I die, then I wish that no one will ever think of me. They will lock every memory of me away. They will never speak my name, look at my picture, or visit my grave. That way, I will always be me, right?_

_I didn't know what to say to her. I wonder if she was upset I left._

_- James [July 1st ] [ St. MaryAnn's Hospital ]_

_What? _ James watched the stranger blankly. The man bore a strangled expression of incredulity, as if he half expected to be dreaming but half fearing it at the same time. His face had completely drained of color, and he looked slightly unsteady on his feet. _Did he just call me Harry? _

"You again!" 

The shout caught James' attention, and he turned from the stranger to see a fleshy woman storming from the café's front doors. 

"Always making trouble… Just wait until Elaine hears of this!" she shrieked, her face flushed in anger.

James inwardly cringed, wondering just how many pitfalls that day had planned for him. But the café owner passed him without a glance and strode directly to Will.

"This is the last time you create a disturbance here, young man!" she barked out shortly. Heaving Will back by the scruff of his shirt, she held him firm by a none too gentle pinch on the ear. The older teen scrambled back when Will was pried away, straightening with an air of someone with bruised pride.

"That _rat_…" the teen spat out the word as if it was distasteful. "attacked me without a reason. I was simply standing here and…"

"Shut up, shut up!" Will hissed brokenly, trashing to free himself. "I'm going to break your arm next time I see you, I _swear…_!"

_The idiot! Shut up! _James felt like screaming at him. They were already cornered, and Will was still taking the last ditch effort for some vengeance. It was a hell of an impression they were making. They already alerted half the street, _the idiot…_

"Another one of you, and I might just go out of business! Always up to no good!" the woman snapped irritably. But her angry glower was transformed into a expression of concern when she turned towards the older teen. "Run along now, I'll make sure this is taken care of."

The boy straightened his clothes and scrubbed at the blood on his face with one last lingering glare on Will. Will made a sound that sounded distinctly like a snarl as if he wanted to pound him again, but the woman had him tight. James hurriedly tried sit up but his side was aching terribly. 

The stout woman wrenched with her hand painfully. Will visibly flinched as she grabbed a few locks of dark hair. "Letting children like you on the streets," she huffed as she hauled him towards the store. "What is this place coming too?"

"Wait!" James shouted after her, but she slammed the door without a backward glance. 

The café had gone silent; every eye seemed to be turned disapprovingly in his direction. James subconsciously shrank towards the floor, feeling painfully insecure with his soaked shirt and oversized jeans. Keeping his gaze trained on the wet tiles, James slowly sat up. 

A rippling ache shot up his back when James tried to stand, and he sank back against the ground a second time. His side was throbbing like it was on fire; he could feel his back protest when he drew a breath. James gingerly prodded his side and flinched when he touched a patch of bruised skin. 

"Harry?" the stranger whispered, his tone more strained than before.

_That man_… James had forgotten about him for a moment. After a soaked boy slammed into his table and knocked over his breakfast, James imagined he probably wouldn't be delighted. But why had he been calling him that name? 

Stiffly, James forced himself to his feet and tried to avoid the stranger's oddly pale eyes. He leaned against the table for balance.

"I'm very sorry about what happened, sir," James said softly. "I really didn't mean to knock into your table like that." 

Silence. James stared at the stranger's shoes, noting how they were still glued to the ground.

James uneasily gulped and tried again. "Umm… if I knocked anything over, I'll try to reimburse you for it. I don't have very much money though, how much…?"

James trailed off when the man still failed to make any acknowledgement of his words. The entire situation was beginning to feel alarmingly awkward. Had he really been that furious when James tripped into his table? But that had hurt him more, James noted somewhat exasperatedly as he rubbed his abused ribs.

A hand tentatively lifted his chin, and James flinched back at the unexpected contact. But the stranger with the strange eyes still had his arm outstretched like he was going to touch him again. Apprehensively, James tried to distance himself. There was another man, James abruptly noticed, with graying fawn hair and blue-gray eyes that was standing beside the dark-haired man, watching James fixedly. When James turned to look at him, the other stranger paled and fell still.

"Harry…" he breathed.

_What the hell was going on?_ James took a wary step back, feeling trapped and outnumbered.

"I only have four pounds," James muttered cautiously as he groped for his deflated wallet. Very warily, he stepped forward and laid the coins on the table. "I'm really sorry if… umm… I knocked over something worth more. I don't have anymore money on me at the moment, I'm sorry…"

No one moved. James felt completely out of place; he was soaked to the skin and dripping water all over the café floor. He wished he could disappear just so he could escape the two strangers' piercing eyes. It was awful being stared at. It always brought back the images of the hospital and the blurred faces hovering over him. James rubbed his arm out of habit and discreetly tried to slink away.

"Harry!" The dark haired man suddenly tore out of his daze. He sprang forward; the emotion in his face was frightening in its intensity.

Before James could leap backwards, the man had caught his shoulders in a bone crushing grip. He tightened his arms on him, burying James' face against his shirt. The grip the man had on him was so tight that it was painful, and James was completely trapped.

"Harry, Harry, Harry…" the stranger's voice was strangled. He had flung his weight completely over James, and James was having a hard time staying upright.

"Sir, no you… I'm not…" James stuttered as he caught the table for support. "You've made a mistake…"

He broke off when the man with the graying hair stepped beside him. He was stunned beyond words, but James didn't feel much better than the stranger looked. Smiling weakly, he took off his coat and slipped it over James' shoulders. 

"Wait, you don't have to…" James began helplessly. He wasn't sure whether to be surprised or embarrassed, and settled on being utterly confused.

_Did they think he was someone else? Or… what was going on? _ James wanted to shout out in confusion, but his mind had completely blanked. He tried to drop to the floor just so he could side from under the stranger's arms, but the stranger's grasp tightened. 

"It's really you, isn't it?" The stranger buried his face against James' hair. "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

James was growing increasingly agitated as he unsuccessfully tried to twist out of the man's grip. "Sir, I think you have the wrong person…" 

The stranger's arms tightened around him, and James' words were smothered against the man's shirt. No one ever touched him in the orphanage or in school, and to be hugged by a stranger was frighteningly unnerving. James pried at the man's hands, fighting the urge to panic.

Almost by its own volition, James' hand slammed itself against the stranger's shoulder hard. The man's grip slipped in surprise and James scrambled back, pale and trembling.

"This… there is some mistake…" James struggled to sound reasonably coherent as he backed away. 

It had been a bad day. It was raining, he was soaked, he ran into that annoying rich boy, the newspaper he had to deliver was piled in a mushy heap on the ground, and to top that all off, he was starving. And now two strangers were calling him Harry, but he was too tired, too annoyed, too stressed to speak logically. James just wanted to sink to the floor and hide…

Remus felt as if all coherent thought had frozen in his mind at the sight of Harry's face staring up uncomprehendingly from the floor. The curve of the cheek, the small arch of his eyebrows… his features were the mirror of James' from fifth year, except for the brilliant green eyes peering out at them. He could recognize that face anywhere…

He stared at the boy disbelievingly, half afraid that it was a dream and the other afraid that it wasn't. The entire situation felt like something out of an image solidified from a desperate wish; everything from the thick aroma of coffee to the rumbling sound of rain seemed surreal. He could only stare speechlessly as Sirius enveloped the boy into a bone crushing embrace that completely hid Harry's face against his shirt.

Harry was soaked to the skin from rain; His hair was plastered to his head, and his tattered shirt was waterlogged. Remus had slid the coat off his shoulders and spread over the younger boy, but the oddest expression crossed Harry's face. Remus had been too distracted to contemplate what it had meant. 

_This couldn't be happening. He had dreamed of this, everyone had… but dreams were notorious for never coming true._

Sirius suddenly jerked back, and Harry darted away from his grasp like a frightened animal escaping a cage. Sirius opened his mouth and shut it without a word, looking oddly hurt and confused.

"This… there is some mistake…" the boy stumbled over his words as he tried to explain. He was alarmingly agitated, shifting back and forth on his feet as if ready to bolt in an instant.

On any normal circumstance when Remus was calm and thinking smoothly, he would have wondered why Harry looked so wary. He would have wondered why Harry was never found if he had been alive and intact, and running through the busy streets on Friday mornings. He would have wondered why Harry was dressed in tattered hand-me-downs, or why he was dragging that bag of newspaper at a street corner, or why he was involved with a street brawl. But at that moment, all he could focus on was the boy standing nervously in front of them.

Remus took a small, tentative step forward. "Harry?" 

"No, I'm not," Harry burst out, visibly distraught as he twisted his soaked sleeve between his fingers. "I don't know who you're looking for, but I'm afraid I'm not…"

"What?" Sirius hoarsely asked.

"I'm not Harry!" the boy repeated firmly, backing away as if trying to place some distance between them. "I've never met you before. You have the wrong person!"

A suffocating silence followed his words. Remus caught his breath, blind to the stares directed in their direction. Remus almost believed the boy for a second when he realized how flustered and perplexed the Harry look-alike was, but then, the boy ran a nervous hand through his hair.

And a jagged scar glared back at them.

Abruptly, Sirius lunged forward, snagging the boy by the wrist before he could even react and squirm out of the way. Harry made an indiscernible sound of surprise, staring up at his godfather fearfully.

"What are you talking about?" Sirius' voice rose into a shout as his grip tightened over Harry's arm. "You are Harry! You even have that scar! You…!"

Sirius' entire demeanor had transformed from the stagnant apathy to outright frenzy within minutes. For the first time, Remus saw just how close to the edge his friend truly was.

"My name is not Harry! Sir, let go," the boy shrank back. "I… I'm not Harry. You have the wrong… ow!"

"Stop! Sirius, you're hurting him!" Remus cut in anxiously. 

Sirius dropped Harry's wrist as if burned at those words, but he was still trembling, whether in frustration, shock, and hurt Remus wasn't sure. 

Trembling and deathly white, Harry took one glance at Sirius and bolted.

James collapsed on the floor in a secluded alleyway, clutching his side and trying to breathe through the snitch in his gut. The desperate run through the streets with bruised ribs that were crooked to begin with left James nauseous from the lack of air. He struggled to calm his breathing enough to listen.

Steady drumming of rain interspersed with the screech of tires against wet roads met his ears. The shouts were finally silent. 

James released a small sigh of relief, and nearly choked when another coughing fit overtook him. The two strangers had chased him all the way down the block, and James had to take refuge behind a bin to hide.

He crinkled his nose at the stench that wafted from the bin behind his back. Inwardly groaning, he sluggishly tried to drag himself back up, but his legs had completely melted into water. He could only slouch against the wall and hug his knees wearily.

Will was going to be worried, not to mention furious, when he came out and found him gone. And… oh no… the newspaper. All their stash must be a mushy heap on the ground by now, if no one had taken them. That was over twenty pounds worth of merchandise that James had to reimburse, but he didn't have nearly that much money in his savings. And those duffle bags that he carried the paper in belonged to St. MaryAnn's headmistress. How was he going to explain to her that he lost them? James mentally slapped himself. Like a nice carton of eggs, when something slips, everything decides to break all at once.

_This had been such a miserable day…_

And why did he have a feeling that things were only going to get worse?

_Who were those two people? _James remembered the dilating pupils in the dark haired man's eyes and inwardly shuddered. That man seemed treading the line. And, James felt like slamming his head against the wall when he realized he still had the brown-haired man's coat. Now, not only had he lost his entire bag of newspaper, dragged Will into a fistfight, he had ripped someone off too.

James dropped his head on his knees with a low groan. 

He should have listened to them explain before he ran, but the stranger had reacted so violently and he was so startled, James wasn't sure what else to do. Still, he should never have punched him and should never have fled. 

_What if…?_

"James!" was the general chorus of voices that greeted him when he passed through the second level of St. MaryAnn's Orphanage (nicknamed 'crazy horse' for no other reason than the rocking horse that stood by the stairs).

In the middle of the narrow whitewashed hallway—liberally decorated with finger-paint and crayons—, James was assaulted on all sides by miniature people with arms. That successfully knocked all his ominous thoughts of those two strangers out of his mind, and James stumbled when a particularly insistent little girl—Nicole, the seven year old girl whose hair he was forced to braid every morning over breakfast—latched onto his arm and proceeded to drag him down. Grinning, James weaseled away and tried to dodge the group of children seemingly determined to play the role of goose imprinting.

"Where were you? What happened…?"

"Will came in alone and said…"

"You should have seen Elaine steam! She…"

"She was angry?" James asked, somewhat worriedly. The concept of incurring the pump, middle aged administrator's wrath was rather unsettling—not that she was mean and bitter and spiteful, but because she was… well, Big Mama Elaine, the lady could chew out fifty year old men and make them feel like toddlers again.

"She was furious!" David dragged him down so that James' ear was the level of his head. "She said you'd be doing _that_ duty with Will again."

James slapped his hand over his face in dismay. _That_ usually implied washing underclothes for the all of St. MaryAnn's.

Grinning, David patted James' head and directed at him a look that just oozed innocent evilness, if that was even possible.

Feeling incredibly childish, James blew him a raspberry and rumpled his hair. "I hope you aren't going to wet your bed again—"

David glared. "I do _not_!"

Laughter ran out, and James almost grew dizzy when the children spun around him in small circles.

"David wets his bed! David wets his bed!"

"I do _not_! James—"

"Okay, okay," laughing, James dodged the furious fist that came flying his way. "David doesn't. I'm only teasing." He glanced around the small group, mentally counting heads. "Where's Thomas?"

A sudden hush fell over them. James looked from face to face worriedly.

"You didn't say anything to him, did you?" James asked sternly.

"We didn't," David muttered, looking put out all of a sudden. "Someone else did though and he's sitting in the closet again."

"Oh, he _didn't_," James sighed. "Cynthia, go find Elaine."

"Aren't you going to go?" Nicole tailed him closely.

"I need to check in first. Now run along before Elaine decides to blame me for taking you out of class. Another reason for her to skin me alive."

"She's going to skin you alive anyway!"

"Oh, shut up you," teasingly, James ruffled David's hair again, and the boy responded by attempting to pinch his cheek. _Bah, sassy boy._

Shaking his head in amusement—well out of sight from the children—, James continued down the corridor. It was so much more comforting to be home. It was good to be around people he knew and trusted. He understood how life worked here, the only life he knew, and he had grown completely attached to it.

Business that was not your business was to be ignored. Things that were not your things were yours to share anyway, unless when it came to things like money and homework. Everyone watched out for each other, in public anyway. In the small, four storied institution, the eighty-seven children of St. MaryAnn's Children's Home were autonomous little buggers who ganged up together on weekdays, then fought among themselves on weekends. Life followed such a simple set formula…

But everyone was stubborn to a fault sometimes, James noted quietly. That's why they were always in trouble at school. James tired to steer away from those matters, but it was still difficult considering his general home and location.

Especially after the first speech and the derisive people from the board of education gave him when he transferred into the school… 

'_True values are set by family. Without family, children become dysfunctional. It is an inevitable cycle_…'

James gritted his teeth. He really wished they would open their eyes and see for just one moment. Their lack of tolerance was infuriating sometimes, but then again, they often made the same mistake. Everyone who wore clean shoes was lumped into one big category entitled 'annoying, rich brats.'

James drew a deep breath and released it in a slow sigh. 

But beyond that, everything was simple here. Familiar environment, all the privacy (though not really silence) he needed, and some very loyal friends. James' life, which had been tilted off balance by the stranger hours ago, rightened itself again. Walking down the whitewashed (somewhat, ignoring the finger paints and scribbles on the walls) hallway, James habitually counted the number of flickering neon lights overhead.

The door abruptly burst open, and a tall girl of sixteen stomped huffily out. James leaped back at the sight, before blushing and quickly turning his eyes away.

That was one thing he never got used to, but then again, he was the only boy in the orphanage who never paraded around without his shirt on. James never gave his reasons, but they, with their vivid and often times disturbing imaginations, always substituted their own. He couldn't count the number of times he had been teased because of it. Their sense of humor really grated his nerves sometimes…

"Does _anyone _have a pad?" she shouted, crossing her bare arms over her bra exasperatedly. "If I don't get one soon, I'll be leaking all over the floor!"

James blushed even more and kept his eyes fixed on the wall.

From behind a door, someone groaned. "I did _not _have to know that, Angela."

"Just use toilet paper for Chrissake!" shouted someone from down the hall.

"No way! I actually want to keep my underwear clean," Angela retorted with an angry grimace, stamping her feet irritably.

"Angela, that's a disgusting concept."

Angela kicked at the closed door. "Oh, you shut up, Will Lestrange!"

James discreetly cleared his throat, keeping his gaze resolutely downcast. "Umm… Angela, could you put on some clothes?"

"I do have clothes on!" Angela snapped back indignantly. But when the name and his voice finally clicked in her mind, she spun around to face him with a large smile. "James, you're back!"

The door to the dorms was thrown open, and James flinched when it slammed loudly against the wall. Will rushed out of the dormitory so quickly he skidded on the wooden floors.

"James, what the hell happened to you?" Will shouted as he pointed an accusing finger at his friend.

If it was at all possible, James blushed even more. "Umm… I met two people who tried to call me Harry…"

Will choked, his black eyes widening to an impossible size. "_What_?!"

As he watched the rapidly darkening expression on Will's face, James found himself thinking back on the two stranger's words. They hadn't said much, but they had seemed so certain that they knew him. The dark haired man looked almost betrayed when James knocked him back. It was like they knew and knew him well; those emotions couldn't be falsified. James could pass it off as a misunderstanding if it was just one person who recognized him, but two? James chewed the inside of his cheek worriedly.

_What if they did know something about me?_

*


	4. persistence of miscommunication

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n 

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter four - persistence of miscommunication

_In science, the fundamental law in almost every field— the thou shalt not tamper with or thou shalt pay with many, many a terrible grades *cough* Will *cough*— is that in this universe, energy cannot be created or destroyed. The natural law of existence of energy seems to have parallels in Christianity's idea of the existence of a soul and the Asian concept of chi. _

_For example, when a child is created, we generally say it was created from a union of two gametes to form a zygote, and onward. But how does the cells, the organelles, the organs, and the organ systems act together for support this living being? For all of these bodies to synchronize, a centralized energy required for which there are many different explanations of where it was derived (biologists say its nerves and food. I'm sort of inclined to believe them too, but I just had this neat idea so I'm going to pretend I don't know that), thus the concept of a spiritual embodiment within people (animals, if that theory is applied, should therefore have souls too. And trees. And maybe even mountains if we really try to stretch it. Maybe we should stop digging for oil)._

_But where does the energy go when people die? What if they don't go to heaven, or leave, or anywhere at all? What if they just… sit? I mean, if there was the existence of such energy, graveyards would be oil fields worth of power. Obviously, it isn't. So what if that energy in a body cannot leave and it lies in a coffin and rots for all of eternity? The central spirit is there, but since the body is frozen, it cannot move? That all these corpses have a stored conscious or **something**__ in them?_

_If that were true, then what happens to those poor, misguided souls who want themselves cremated? And what happens to those who ask for their ashes to be scattered into space?_

_Wait… I'm not making much sense. Never mind._

_On a side note though: do I sound like I have an obsession with death?_

_- James [ March 4th ][ St. John's Library ]_

James stared at his textbook with an unfocused gaze, listlessly fingering the metal brace on his arm out of nervous habit. The book was a distraction to clear his mind, but James was coming to the realization that he had no notion of what he had been reading for the past hour. Leading back against his pillow with the book propped on a knee, James loosened the straps on his arm brace and sighed.

It wasn't working. After ten hours, he still couldn't shake the image of the two strangers from his mind.

They claimed to know him, and oddly, apart of him accepted it without reason. He was an amnesiac who must have vanished a year ago from his previous life, and now, there were two men who recognized him. It made sense. Perhaps if he stayed to listen to them explain, he would have learned something. But James had fled like some sort of frightened animal and didn't even catch their names.

_I should have listened_, James told himself ruefully. _But it was too late now…_

"He called you Harry?"

It took James a moment to notice Will staring down at him, a towel still on his head and his hair dripping wet from the shower. Will looked oddly… dismayed. There was really no other way to describe the resigned expression on his friend's face. 

"Yes," James admitted cautiously. "That's the fifth time you asked me that. Is something wrong?"

Will turned away from his question. Distractedly, he scrubbed at his hair and picked out his wrinkled clothes from the pile of laundry as if stubbornly blocking him out. 

James frowned slightly. Will was usually involved in some sort of shouting match, and if he wasn't, he was complaining aloud. He wasn't the type of person to silently brood. Something was wrong and, on normal circumstances, James would have pursued it, but that day, he found that he didn't have the energy.

James gently closed his textbook and rested it on the table beside his bed. Unbidden, his mind returned to the events of early morning and to the two strangers: one with light brown hair intertwined with grey, the other with strange pale eyes like hollow pits. Squinting, James tried to grope blindly in his mind, struggling to find some sort of distant image that he could tie with those two men. But it was like grasping at water. He just couldn't remember.

After reading his share of books, glorifying some fallen hero with lost memory, James always expected meeting someone he once knew would be something similar. A flash of blinding light, a collapse; and then miraculously, he would awake in a neat little bed remembering everything. But that was just too idealized to be true. 

James sighed dejectedly, and flinched when he felt the familiar tingle of the migraine setting in. Inwardly groaning, closed his eyes and rested his face on his knees.

"Where did you get that?" Will suddenly asked, warily examining at the neatly folded, but rather shabby coat at the foot of James' bed.

"One of them lent it to me. I forgot to give it back." 

James picked up the neatly folded coat, and spread it on his knees. It was still damp from the morning rain; he had been paranoid about it shrinking in the wash and hung it above the heater to dry instead. It wasn't his, and James wasn't comfortable with the idea of ruining it. 

Will abruptly snatched the coat from his hands. He pulled at the collar and pried at the sleeves, frantically searching for something. James scrambled off the bed, intent on retrieving it, but his friend jerked it away angrily.

"Will, what are you doing?" James said with some frustration. "It isn't mine. Don't damage it!"

"Get rid of this," Will suddenly said. "Throw this in the dump, burn it, it doesn't matter. Just get rid of it."

James frowned. "It's not mine to throw away. I still need to return it…"

"Stay away from them. They're nothing but trouble!" Will hissed vehemently.

With an angry scowl, he shoved the coat back into James' hands. James hesitated uncomprehendingly, loss at words for a second at Will's heated response. His friend was compulsive and hot tempered, but James wasn't sure what had provoked him. 

"They said they knew me," James hesitantly began.

Will grunted, his blank eyes darkening with resentment. "Probably two drunkards or nutcases reminiscing."

James sighed. "They were in a coffee shop. They couldn't possibly be drunk."

Will stared at him; there was a hard line in his brow. "James, avoid them," he said tersely. "You're too naïve to understand. You can't just trust two random strangers you ran into on the street claiming to know you."

James bit his lip, frowning with a hint of exasperation. There was a difference between being naïve and being understanding. Will blurred the two too often. James understood Will's habitual stubbornness, but when his friend extended that philosophy to include James as well, it became, quite frankly, irritating. James wasn't sure whether to be flattered of annoyed at Will for fighting all his battles.

"But it could be possible, couldn't it?" James quietly asked. "What if they…?"

"No," Will hissed through clenched teeth. "They'll bring so much trouble you'll wish you'd never met them. Don't get involved with them. They'll completely ruin your life, James. Trust me on this one."

Will's stubbornness was beginning to arouse a slight suspicion. James listened to the curt footsteps as Will paced the room and thoughtfully refolded the coat again. 

"Do you know something?" James began casually.

Will slammed his fist against the wall with a crash; James flinched. 

"No! They're… James, just avoid those kinds of people!" 

Will glared at James' as if obstinately willing him to obey, but before James would even open his mouth to respond, Will turned and fled the room. With a sigh, James sank on his bed.

Will didn't understand his uncertainty. He didn't understand how apart of James desperately wished that those two men knew him. Only someone with a blank slate as a mind could understand that sort of lingering, almost overwhelming hope.

He had no memories, no past, nothing to actually call his own. The orphanage was filled of children with stories to share; around them, James felt out of place, stripped and humiliated even. _It was memories that shaped a person_; how many times have he heard that? James lived in a place where everyone was a walking proof of that statement. Everyone had their own past and their own experience weighing on them. Even the youngest child in the children's home had _something_ to share, and James was so envious sometimes. Even if it was pain they knew, at least they _remembered_. He had nothing but a collection of odd scars and a name he wasn't even sure was his.

_Perhaps my family abandoned me_, James would muse. Perhaps his parents discarded him just like over half the children in the orphanage. Perhaps that was why no records of him appeared in the hospital's database and no missing record with his profile was filed. Sometimes, James wished that he knew the answer, just to rid himself of that persistent bitter sting.

A very small part of James declared that he was happy the way he was. No memories meant no regrets; the very thought of regaining them stirred a fluttering feeling of unease. A small voice shouted in the depths his mind _he didn't want to remember_.

Spreading the coat on the foot of the bed, James carefully smoothed it out, distractedly tracing the gold letters that weaved out the words _Madam Malkin's Robes _on the collar.

The door to the dorms glided open, and sounds of loud, ragged breathing filled the room. It slammed shut, and that finally jolted James' from his light slumber. 

After living in the small dorm for a year, he was well acquainted with everyone's odd quirks and habits. These disturbances occurred often enough, and he normally would have slept straight through. Blearily blinking at clock that hummed 1:47 am, James shifted under thick blankets, intent on scrapping the few hours of sleep he had left before the sun rise. 

A thick voice slurred out something unintelligible, sounding oddly like mix of muffled giggles and mumbling words. 

James cracked open an eye at the sounds. It was Eric; he was the only one who wandered around in the middle of the night. The other boy's muddled words were barely understandable, and though the light that filtered through the half open door, James could see that his sprawled limbs dangling the sides of the bed. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, followed the shadows from the streetlights over the walls.

James knew that look. He turned away again, closing his eyes tightly. There were some things James wished he didn't know about his roommates, and some things he wished he didn't know about life in general. It was good to be oblivious sometimes, and James tried hard to pretend to be. 

"Eric, would you shut it?" Will's voice tore the layer of sleep completely away.

Through the groggy, half awake daze, James noted that Will sounded far more aggravated than usual. 

More whispers. With an angry curse, Will groped blindly for something on his desk and flung it in the direction of Eric's bed.

James sat up with a jerk, instantly awake. Will flinging things in the middle of the night at Eric was never a good sign; if he wasn't quieted, Will would be raving in a few minutes. Eric had wandered into the dorms disjointed many times before, and each time concluded with Will shoving him into the hall or knocking him down with a fist. They were stubborn enemies with equally volatile dispositions; disputes between the two had never settled peacefully. 

"Will, stop it. Just let him be," James said wearily. 

"Well, he should just let us be," Will snapped. Kicking the covers back, he stood up and stomped loudly across the room.

James was immediately awake. Will's out of bed was not a good sign. James knew him and Eric both well enough to understand what was going to happen (this occurrence wasn't unusual, though the outcome usually depended on Will's prior mood). By then, it looked as if they woke up half the dorm. Sleepy faces were peeking at them already over the rims of their blankets, and James waved at them to go back to sleep.

"Will, just go back to sleep," James protested. "You've already gotten into a fight this morning."

"Stop defending him, James." Will wasn't relenting.

"Someone get the lights," James said as he shuffled around for his glasses. He'd better stop him before something got out of hand.

As quietly as he could off the creaking bed, James slipped out from under the covers and fought to muffle a groan. He ached. He hadn't noticed it hours before, but the entire skin of his side and back was bruised and sore. It felt even worse than that afternoon, but bruises had a terribly way of making themselves known rather belatedly. Biting his lip in pain, James slowly eased himself to his feet and limped across the room.

"Would you shut up, Eric?" Will snapped. 

"Oh for Chrissake, he's only breathing!" James said, and grimaced when even speaking made his ribs ache.

"He's breathing awfully loud."

The lights finally swamped the room, and James finally had a full view of the muffled activities. Will had Eric by the front of his shirt and seemed intent on hauling him to the bathrooms. But with Eric's knees dragging the floor and his head thrown back, he was a dead weight that was impossible to drag. James hurried to pry his friend back.

"It doesn't matter," James insisted. "He's falling asleep. He'll be softer then"

"He'd snore."

"You snore," James mumbled with a sigh.

"He'd snore; then halfway through the middle of the night, he'd vomit and make us breathe the fumes." 

Grimacing, Will shoved the boy back, but James was numbly relieved that the action was only half hearted. Eric fell back against the wooden floors with a limp thud. 

Eric groaned. Squinting, he looked blearily up at James. "Help me up… my head hurts…"

James caught Will by the back of his nightshirt firmly when it looked that his friend was ready to do something drastic. 

"That's terrible, Eric. Do you remember what you last ate?"

"Something sweet… 's good…"

"I'm glad you liked it," James mumbled distractedly. Bending down, James hauled Eric up by an arm in an attempt to help him to his feet. 

"Come on," James insisted. "Get up before Elaine notices the light's on."

"…'s nice. You should try some…"

With an annoyed glare, Will brushed James aside and roughly yanked Eric to his feet. James inwardly cringed for the dormmate. Eric gave a startled gargle, and his hand shot to his mouth. That action triggered the alarm bells in his head instantly. James had sat with ill, young children enough to know all the warning signs.

"Will, take him to the toilet, quick!" 

James tilted Eric's head up with a hand under his jaw, but by the griming expression on the boy's face, James could tell it was only making things worse. Eric lurched forward.

"_Shit_!"

It took over ten minutes to drag a dead weight down the hall, but Will managed to haul Eric to a toilet before he spewed in the dorms. James held his shoulders, cringing in sympathy as the boy arched his back and vomited.

Will took a disgusted step back and pinched his nose. "Trust him to get whacked the first weekend of summer."

"It's just alcohol," James patted Eric's back when the boy gargled and spluttered. 

"He's had more than alcohol, don't pretend you don't know it," Will snapped. He scowled at Eric's back, as if plotting to aim a kick there, but settled on glaring instead. 

"It's just alcohol," James repeated groggily. "He's just had too much. Give him a few minutes, and he'll be alright." Giving the boy another sympathetic pat on the back, James slouched towards the hall with dragging feet. "Hold him up for a bit. I'm going to get him some water." 

"What the hell for?" 

"Alcohol makes you thirsty, and plus, drinking some water would dampen the hangover…"

Will rolled his eyes skyward. "Just give him water from the tap."

"Will, it's reclaimed," James tiredly sighed.

"Alright!" 

Will looked decidedly wary, but nevertheless, begrudgingly took a step forward. None too gently, he plucked at the back of Eric's shirt and held him up like a rag doll.

"Make sure Eric's head isn't in the toilet when I return," James tried to make his tone teasing, but Will only responded with an irritated pout.

With dragging feet, James made his way down the hall. After the initial surge of energy had worn off at the sudden awakening, he felt sluggish again. Muffling a yawn, he followed the texture of the wall to the kitchen. James could trace the familiar path in darkness, after his numerous midnight excursions for midnight snacks.

Flicking on the light switch, he paused for a moment to readjust his eyes at the brightness before groggily moving towards the cupboards. He had another paper delivery in the morning, followed by six hours at the donut shop. James groaned aloud at just the thought.

As he stretched an arm for a mug, a faint tinkering of porcelain echoed through small kitchen. James stilled, his hand freezing halfway to the shelves. He couldn't have made that sound; he was still inches away from the cupboard.

He strained his ears. A quiet, very quiet, rustle of cloth vibrated through the small kitchen.

James' gut gave a nauseating wrench as the sharp pangs of fear began to eat away at his stomach.

There was a man in the room with him, and that man wasn't anyone who belonged in St. MaryAnn's. James wasn't sure how he knew, but he did and he was frightened. A voice deep in the back of his mind was crying out and suddenly, he _knew_ that there was a stranger standing right behind him, just an arm's length from James' back and the stranger was watching him, just waiting for him to move…

Slowly, feeling as if every joint of his spine had stiffened in their pockets, James turned his head. A smear of black cut into the corner of his vision, but before James could fully turn and compensate for his damaged eye, he found himself backed into the cupboard with a warm hand clamped over his mouth.

A stranger stared down at him with startlingly familiar steel blue eyes, his hair a damp, tangled curtain over his face and his skin a corpse-like white. 

"Harry," he croaked out with a ragged voice. "Why did you run?"

James tried to scream.

*


	5. interlude : introspection

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers.   
  
a/n after I posted the flashback to the last chapter, I suddenly changed my mind yet again! Ignore the last flashback to James' orphanage time and substitute this journal entry instead. I'm sorry, so far, James hasn't shown any Harry-like qualities. The more you read, the more different he seems most likely, but I really want to establish his character before PoM hits the plot. That was what hindered it in the last version. So I'm cramming everything within the first five chapters, and by the time PoM starts moving, James, hopefully, will already seem like a real character to you. Please bear with me!   
  
warning: language   
  
  


** The Persistence of Memory**  
By neutral   
  
  
interlude - introspection

  
  
  
*_St. MaryAnn's, June 17th , two weeks prior to the beginning of the story_*   
  
James raked his fingers roughly through his hair in frustration, and fixed the makeshift tent his blankets made over the bed.   
  
"… I told you to…"   
  
"Shut the fuck up!"   
  
"Would you just stop bring those girls in the dorms, Eric? They're…"   
  
A crash of glass against wooden floor.   
  
"Dammit, that was my…"   
  
The windows rattled as a door slammed shut.   
  
"Oy! There are people trying to concentrate here!" Will yelled somewhere by the bathrooms.   
  
"… oh, you asshole…!!"   
  
James slammed his fist against the bed with in strangled groan. Drawing a deep breath, James drew out the crumbling book nested neatly under his pillow and carefully opened its pages. He pulled out a pen and leaned back to thoughtfully muse at its blank pages. Posing his hand over a blank sheet, he tentatively began to write.   
  
  


* * *

  


__

Will insisted that I should write an autobiography, or at least something in my journal so it appears that I am at least somewhat sane, instead a raging homicidal freak or a big no-life dork (I quote: "What's with all these death and destruction musings?!" *sigh* Will, you idiot, if you want to say it outright, 'I saw your journal on the bed and peeked,' find some more subtle way to say it please. Then I wouldn't have tried to throw socks at your head). So I'm going to add these pages into the journal (this is stupid. Is there anyone whose going to read this other than myself? Will, if you're reading this, or anyone else for that matter, go away!) and rant about my oh so exciting life.   
  
  
My name is James (I feel like a idiot. Oh yes, hi to myself too!). My birth date is February 29th, but I'm not sure if that's the exact day I was born. I choose that day from a dusty calendar after one of Will's offhanded remarks that being born on leap year seemed interesting. I filled in that area on my own blank file for kicks. Of course, it wasn't until quite later, when it was already too late, that I realized having a birthday every four years was not exciting at all.   
  
  
I am fifteen years old (again, that's a bit uncertain), and I live in a rusty steel bed that sits on musty floor boards that are attached to a brick building that bears the sign St. MaryAnn's Orphanage.   
  
  
I am currently writing in a vomit green notebook with Padclaw the orange crab on my head (Will thinks it flattens my hair, but I think it just makes me look taller. Ha! Eat that, Will! I will be taller than you one day, even if I have to wear those hippie shoes to get there!).   
  
  
I have a one word name with no surname. I have messy hair, emphasis on messy, and green eyes (and I do mean green, not those grayish blue eyes that look green only when you wear green. Will always said my eyes looked like someone speared two frogs and shoved them up my sockets. Doesn't that just sound so flattering? *cringe*).   
  
  
I am not short, only vertically challenged. Either that, my backpack is too heavy and it's stunting my growth. If it's not that, then it's because everyone else is too tall and I'm the only one normal.   
  
  
The things I hate most about myself -- since I really don't want to sound like an egotistical bastard -- prepare for a really long list. I hate my brain, but I also love it at the same time because it keeps me alive. I hate my right arm, I hate my ribs, I hate my red and white blood cells, but I also hate to admit they're necessary so I can't discard them and buy new ones -- I'd love to if I could. There are about fifty-seven more things, but since my ink is running low, I'll skip the rest.   
  
  


*_August 19th_*

  
  
His leg hurt.   
  
James sank his weight against the musty wall, biting his lip hard as fought to regain his balance. Against the windows that lined the hall, a steady platter of rain drummed. James dug his nails into his knee, swallowing a gasp of pain as a wave of agony shot from the flesh, where the crack of the bone recently mended.   
  
The doctors had warned this would happen. The icy weather and moist air was like skeletal claw that dragged through his broken bones. His ribs stung in his chest, his right arm was a mass of needles, and his leg throbbed as if on fire. James held his breath, sinking to the creaking, wooden floor that reeked of sweaty feet, and hugged his knees to his chest in an attempt to keep warm.   
  
His limbs were still trembling. It had been a week since he left the wheelchair, and now James suddenly longed for the support. He had hated the impairment and the sympathetic glances of bystanders before, but it was suddenly welcoming as he remembered the soft cushions that insulated him. The floor boards stubbornly ate into his back.   
  
Indistinct mumblings. He could hear the advisor, laughing with the small ground of children in the room below.   
  
James sighed, wearily closing his eyes. It was nice to have peace after a while, despite the red hot brand pressed against his joints. It was nice to listen to the quiet conversations of others, rather than to deal with them himself. Third week at the orphanage, and he was already weary.   
  
"... read together, or else you'll never learn. Begin: One, two, three. _Father, father..._ Alex, you're not reading! Let's begin again..."   
  
It was nice to finally be free of his student guide, to have the time to himself. Not that he disliked Will, but Will disliked him. Will seemed to dislike everyone in general, dining alone, reading alone, and so easily provoked that there was a five meter radius of empty space around him everywhere he went. And with Will asigned to him as a guide, it seemed that he fell into the isolation along with him, with the children around him examining him with wary eyes. Those glances bothered him for some unexplainable reason, leaving a lingering unease that gave James an insuppressible urge to get away.   
  
It was nice to get away.   
  
"_... father, where are you going_ Angela, are you laughing? I am trying to teach you to read. Begin at the first line again."   
  
Perhaps it was wrong to want such isolation. Everyone else had friends. But around these nameless, faceless people, James wasn't sure if he belonged. They were kind to him, but the way they stared at him with those scrutinizing eyes, James couldn't help but feel that they were judging him somehow. James wasn't sure how to interact. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. They were like the people at the hospital: empty.   
  
"_The night was dark, no father was there._"   
  
No, they weren't exactly like the people at the hospital. There, he was the only abandoned child out of all the children there. Every day, those children would see their families, bringing flowers bringing gifts, happy. He would be alone. But here, they were all abandoned children. James knew he should feel relieved, but it only made him more desperate. He didn't want to be at the orphanage. He wanted to be somewhere warm, friendly, welcoming. A place where he belonged.   
  
"_The mire was deep, and the child did weep..._ Alex, stop it! Put that down!"   
  
He wanted someone to comfort him. James felt a twinge of shame at admitting it to himself, but something within him craved for comfort. He felt so lost, out of place, as if the entire world was moving around him and he was trapped in a dark and empty room forgotten. James was desperate for any reassurance, but going to his advisor with fourteen other children pestering her seemed wrong. James grinded his fingers against the joint of his knee, swallowing the gasp of pain that rose in his throat.   
  
"_... and away the vapour flew._" 

__

  
  
  
I'd like to say that I'm confident, I'm brave, I'm strong, but I'm not. I'm just a hypocrite with nothing to back up my facade. I'm afraid of many things, and I'm not nearly as idealistic as Will thinks I am. When I get into a fistfight, all my ideals go up in flames, and then I become probably the direst fighter who has ever graced these orphanage halls. I mean, who saw a boy defend himself in a fight by grabbing a handful of sand, throwing it at the opponent's eyes, then kicking him when he's down? But I don't want to lose. I really don't want to lose.   
  
  
I hate a lot of other things too. I hate fire, but I like pumpkins. I hate sticks, I like trees (and don't as me how that works because I don't know either). I hate dogs, I like rats, but I made those observations on dissection table during anatomy class, so its probably inversely related to reality.   
  
  


*_January 22_*

  
  
Will raised an eyebrow when James stumbled into the room, half running to the communal bathroom. He didn't even pause to shut the door behind him. There was the sound of the faucet being turned on full force, followed by someone stuffing his head in the sink. Concerned, Will set aside the yearbook, whose pictures he was carefully and selectively defacing, and reluctantly left his place in front of the stuttering heater.   
  
"The hell, James, what are you…?" Will swallowed the rest of his words when James lifted his head, dark hair dripping from tap water. Still in his winter jacket, which hung like a sack over James' thin frame, he looked vaguely like a stick with hair. His eyes was completely hidden by his bangs, water running down his face and neck in streams. There was a ghastly paleness about his features that was unnatural.   
  
Sighing, Will rummaged through the disorganized room for a towel. Finding one moderately dry, he handed it to his friend.   
  
"Are you down with something _again_?" Will grumbled petulantly.   
  
Although his tone was exasperated, he was truly worried. James got sick often, and every time he did, he was ill for weeks. His immune system was slow to recover after five week hospitalization, and living in a orphanage in the winter with a eighty other children left him almost constantly ill.   
  
"Damnit, Will, the way you say it makes me sound like an invalid," James muttered, equally frustrated. The pounding headache mixed with his pride made him unusually irritable.   
  
"Well, excuse me! I was just asking," Will snapped, folding his arms crossly.   
  
James paused at his tone, giving his friend an apologetic look. "Sorry, I'm in a bad mood today. Plus, I think I just flunked my semester final for anatomy."   
  
"And now you're ill," Will finished. He rolled his eyes skyward, sighing dramatically. "Oh, you flunked, bo ho ho. You have a ninety-eight percent in that class, James!"   
  
"No! It's just that I have this headache," James said quickly, voice muffled as he dried his hair with the towel. His arm froze abruptly, and he sniffed at the grey sheet. "Urg… this… who used this thing last?"   
  
"Don't be so picky!" Will snatched the towel from James head, throwing it haphazardly into a pile. He shuffled around for another, but when that failed, handed James a shirt instead. "Another headache? Did you try to remember something?"   
  
"No, I… I don't know!!" James sighed. "We had to dissect an animal and it all went downhill from there." Pushing past Will, he made a beeline to his bed and flopped, head first, unceremoniously into the pillow. The thick coat that hung like a sack over James seemed to inflate over the bed, and with an annoyed sigh, he shrugged himself out of it and edged closer to the heater.   
  
"I never knew you were _that_ moralistic," Will observed thoughtfully.   
  
James gave a muffled groan.   
  
"Why did you take the class in the first place anyway?"   
  
"It was either that or sparring, everything else was full," James rubbed his forehead in an attempt to relieve the ache. "What other choices did I have? Besides, the class was actually pretty interesting."   
  
"You have to take a physical education class," Will pointed out, frowning. "They require it -- think it's good for us and all that shit."   
  
"Thank god they think chess is physical education…" James muttered under his breath. "Otherwise, I'd die."   
  
"You dug yourself into this hole," Will retorted, poking James on the head pointedly. It was his attempt at humor to lighten the mood, despite the accusing tone. "You choose to take anatomy. You could have very well chosen a bullshit class like social improvement."   
  
"I don't understand!!" James sighed, jerking his head up and banging it repeatedly against the pillow. "What went wrong? I never had any trouble before! Not with the frog, rat, rabbit, or…"   
  
"Oh yeah, I remember now," Will sat up, tapping his fingers in a decidedly unsettling manner. "I heard you went a bit overzealous with the rat, skinned it or something to that affect. What did you have to gore this time?"   
  
James lifted his head, pulling the glasses from his face and rubbing his eyes harshly. "A dog," he grumbled, but it came out like a croak.   
  
Will shrugged. "That's not too different from a rabbit…"   
  
"Well, no, but it was this big, fluffy thing, and the liquid they kept it in bleached its eyes to this really pale grey color…" James trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as if keeping the headache at bay. "There weren't many of us in that class to begin with; there were about five students in a group and they all expected me to do everything. We had to map the chest cavity or something. I went to make the incision, I started getting these flashes and… oh crap…"   
  
"Suddenly get a bit of a conscience?" Will offered.   
  
James groaned again. "No… a killer migraine…" 

__

  
  
  
It's not the most gratifying thing for a rat to be told that a person likes him because he likes chopping him up. Dogs are hard to chop up though, and I swear they're glaring at me accusingly when I try. Oh geeze, that just sounded wrong. Animal Activists out there, I am sorry!   
  
  
I want to plant a big willow tree outside the window.   
  
  
I want birds to wear disposable and biodegradable diapers so they won't poop on our heads.   
  
  
I want to be friends with people with red or bushy hair. Don't ask me why.   
  
  
I want the controls to the brain to be on a remote control, so I could filter, rewind, and record my lost memories, and maybe erase a couple I don't want. But we can't have everything.   
  
  
I want my cheap, battered text books to be complete for once, so I won't go into a test worrying about missing pages that had fallen out and panicking. You can only live at the library for so long before the librarian kicks you out, and it would be helpful if those study references were actually reliable.   
  
  
I want Will to throw away his foolish pride one day and learn to apologize. Not to me, but to Eric, whom he nearly killed (I don't care what your excuse is, Will, but you left him drunk in an alleyway! You were lucky nothing serious came of it, but one day, that pure blind luck wouldn't last for you, and you'll fall hard. Think before you act for once!).   
  
  
I should probably talk about Will, since he is an unavoidable topic in this (blah) life. Will is my friend, my co-conspirator, my partner in crime. Together, we are exponentially impish. Once, we even got a teacher sacked, but that's a whole other story (he deserved it, greasy git! Physical punishment is strictly prohibited, what was he thinking? And dammit, that hurt). Will wreaks havoc every where he goes, and although I usually try to stay out of the way, I seem to be a magnet of some sort for those annoying little buggers.   
  
  
And so, together, we both wreak more havoc. The only difference between the two of us is, I do things secretly whereas Will walks right up to people to pounds their faces in. Somehow, with a friend like Will, I still managed to maintain a reputation of a goody-two-shoes at school. No one ever catches me or even suspects me when a tub of honey and feathers suddenly rain out of the sky over my most hated teacher *evil cackle*. That made me sound really cruel, didn't it? Oops!   
  
  


*_June 9th_*

  
  
"It's called, 'maintaining the status quo,'" Will explained, mocking a squeaky high voice of his computer applications professor. He pulled off his gloves, shooting a worried glance at his friend sitting behind him as he hung the wet clothes above the heater to dry. "Listen, James, he does that all the time…"   
  
"But it isn't fair! It just isn't," James nearly shouted, slamming his fist against the bed. He sank into a chair in his moist coat, too preoccupied to change into dry apparels. It was one of the few times James found his temper close to snapping, but the times he did, he was explosive. "I spent a week preparing for the test. All my answers were correct, and he purposely marked them wrong! I checked them in the book and confronted him, and you know what he tells me? 'You're going to spent the rest of your life selling donuts anyway, so why bother?' That fucking son of a bitch…"   
  
Will sighed as James continued to splutter, spilling some of the direst vocabulary he picked up at the orphanage.   
  
"James, it's maintaining the status quo," Will whispered, dropping his scarf on the desk with a sigh. "They expect the rich kids to be at the top of the class. If they're not, their lovely mothers or fathers would pay the professor a visit and make them the top of their class. They expect the orphans to be shivering, scheming little devils. So what if you didn't fall in the stereotype. So what if you did well in school. They brand you anyway. But god help you if you were smarter than the rich kids," Will fell silent from his breathless ranting, expression darkening in bitterness. "He's afraid of you, James. You're smart, hardworking, motivated… everything those rich, spoiled brats aren't. But you know what? When it all comes down to it, they're rich, you're poor, you're the one whose going to be screwed."   
  
"Thank you, Will. You're being very helpful," James grumbled through clenched teeth, burying his face in his hands.   
  
"Well, it happens all the time!" Will snapped, aggravated as his friend turned his frustrations on him.   
  
"But it isn't fair!" James broke in angrily, voice muffled in his hands.   
  
"It isn't suppose to be fair," Will muttered, distractedly scratching at his battered desk with his nail. He drew a deep breath, slamming his fist on it in exasperation. "James, you're too naïve. You might as well..."   
  
"No. I know what you're going to say, and no! You are not going to beat up Professor McKay, Will," James replied automatically, glaring at his friend. "I remember the last time you asked me that question and Eric ended up with a broken arm. No, Will, you will be in so much trouble…"   
  
"So what? Its part of the stereotype," Will muttered offhandedly, but frowning nevertheless. "He should happy. Besides, McKay deserves it…"   
  
James fell silent, leaning back in his chair to stare unseeingly at the white washed ceiling. He seemed quiet and resigned, but Will noticed the flexing muscles in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. Suddenly, James jerked to his feet and began digging frantically through his books.   
  
"James, what the hell's gotten into you?" Will sharply asked, noting his friend's gleeful expression in alarm.   
  
"Paying my debts," James grumbled under his breath. He drew out a familiar battered notebook from under his bed and lifted it triumphantly. "I always pay all my debts." 

__

  
  
  
I don't prank, usually. I think pranking is a sort of cruel and unusual punishment for those who don't deserve it. Some people go too far, playing tricks on those who seem different, quiet, or detached, but those people are people with the least self confidence and that sort of embarrassment is like a solid blow . Even if they aren't shy, there is still no valid excuse for publicly humiliating another. It's just Professor McKay who really rubs me the wrong way (yes! He got sacked! Ha!).   
  
  
I'm going off topic. Sorry about that. Back onto the subject of Will. He is the volatile bomb, my worst confident (I'm sorry, Will, but seriously, if you ever become a psychologist, please give me your address so that I can avoid you?), and my closest and most trust friend.   
  
  
Will and I get along about as wonderfully as oil and water. Placed in a bottle, you can't tell us apart, and yet we don't mix. If I were to categorize us, Will would definitely be oil, bursting into flames at the smallest spark. His courage is very humbling; he flung himself head first into a fight against four people armed with sticks once, and he won. But Will also does the most ridiculous things (even worse that the prior event) that makes me just want to pound his head against the wall. But I suppose that's the way he must live, creating his own world in his own mind by his eight year old self ever since his uncle left him.   
  
  
I was going to adopt Will's surname as my own, just to cut short some of the legal issues of having only a one word name (two syllables if you really stretch it. I should emigrate to China. 'Ni hao, my name is Jam Es' *bow* wait, the Chinese doesn't bow, the Japanese do. Oh crud, nevermind), but Will threatened that he would have my hide or any other Lestrange's hide if I did. Considering that you could never be sure whether Will was teasing or serious, I decided to play it safe.   
  
  
Thus, I am James, not James Lestrange.   
  
  
His name is not the best kind among skewed-minded teens, but its bloody fascinating; I've always wanted an odd name like that just for personal amusement. But watch, I'll turn out to have a name like White or something politically incorrect like that. Who knows who my parents really are.   
  
  


*_August 19th_*

  
  
It hurt like hell.   
  
James huddled under the roof where the shingles hung over the steps, hugging his legs against his chest in an attempt to keep warm. The water splattered at his feet, sending a spray of rain water that was rapidly soaking his clothes. His mended bones was throbbing more than ever, and James felt as if someone was ramming small hammers over every inch of his arm and leg.   
  
But the air, laden with dew, was so refreshing. James drew a deep breath and coughed violently as his ribs protested.   
  
"You _idiot_!"   
  
James startled, spinning around in shock but stopped midway as a fire shot up his side.   
  
"What's up with you?" the voice continued, the anger and exasperation almost tangible. "You really are suicidal, aren't you? Why are you sitting in the middle outside?"   
  
"I'm not…" James voice drifted when he noticed the raggedness of his voice. He glanced away, silently hoping Will would leave. He was irritated, with the weather, with himself; he wanted to grab a large rock and fling it at someone just to vent some of that bubbling frustration that boiled at the surface of his mind. A rustle of fabric sent James' hopes crashing; Will stepped briskly through the back doors of the orphanage, settling himself on the stairs. James felt the light brush of a coat against his arm, but it was on his right side where his blind spot stretched. James kept his gaze firmly fixed at his feet.   
  
"Seriously though, what's really up with you?" Will asked, tone softer this time.   
  
"It was stifling in there," James whispered. His ribs flared in pain at his attempt to speak, and James clutched his side with a trembling hand.   
  
Will snorted. "Your intelligence is astounding, James. Perhaps your brain is more empty than we thought. Just open a window for Christ sake."   
  
"Why did she read that poem?" James quietly asked, thoughts drifting past Will's sarcastic remark. He chewed the corner of his lip distractedly. "Those words… they're hardly appropriate for those children."   
  
Will didn't respond for a long moment. James half expected that he would stand up and leave, but as the minute stretched on, Will was motionless. James could barely hear him breathe.   
  
"Is that what's bothering you?" Will asked finally.   
  
"What?"   
  
"You're afraid that you were abandoned, aren't you?" Will continued, tenor rising with a rumbling fury. James could feel his eyes on him, boring into the back of his head.   
  
That accusation caught James completely by surprise, and he lifted his head to stare at Will questioningly. "I don't see how that connects…"   
  
"Jesus, James, get off it!" Will snapped, slamming his fist shrilly against the moist cement. "You're fourteen years old! You can take care of yourself!"   
  
"Will, I'm not afraid of that," James said, but the tremor in his voice betrayed his insecurities completely.   
  
Will took no notice of his distressed denial, the fury in his demeanor escalating. His features were taut with unsuppressed anger, the rage flashing like hot coals behind his eyes. "Why should you care if they abandoned you or not? Why should you care whether your parents were druggies, rapists, murderers, lawyers, or anything at all? That's not important. The important thing is that you're alive, you're you, and you're going to live your life regardless of who or what your parents were."   
  
"But that's not the point!" James abruptly broke in, his self control breaking away. He could feel a little of the bottled frustration that had been gathering for months at the hospital burst. "It's just that…"   
  
"… you feel so incredibly alone, James?" Will retorted in a tone almost dripping with sarcasm. "What is it you want? Someone to pat you on the head, give you a hug, and tell you everything will be okay? Damn it, James, you're fourteen. You're not a little baby anymore, so if you have a problem, deal with it! No one else is going to solve it for you. You go figure something out, because no one else will!"   
  
James opened his mouth to speak, but Will's cutting words had muted him. Bitting back a scowl, he jerked his head away to hide his face.   
  
"Do you think anyone really cares if you go crying to them for help? Do you think those people there really care about you? When they pat you on the back and tell you everything's okay, that's crap! Those people who do that are only pretending to care anyway. The moment you do something wrong or turn out to be just a little different, they'll slap you, kick you, throw you out. Don't trust those people who pretend to care, James, they're all just lying!"   
  
"That's not true," James drew a deep breath, trying to bring himself to yell but the failing ribs cut off his words in a wheeze. "You can't go through life thinking everyone's lying. There are good people, people who are kind, forgiving, understanding, and..."   
  
Will sneered, a cruel and bitter smile cutting across his young face. "Some good people? Do you really want to take that chance? James, go look in the mirror before you jump to conclusions."   
  
James faltered, paling into a ghastly white. Will's sour grin flattered at James' reaction, realizing too late that he had gone too far.   
  
"Look, James, I never lost my memory, but I'm guessing it's pretty annoying," Will muttered, expression softening as he made a clumsy attempt at comfort. "But when it really comes down to it, those people never came looking for you, so why the hell sulk because of it? If they didn't care about you, you shouldn't care about them. Go on with your life and pretend they never existed. You're you, James. Who the hell cares who you were and what you were like before? Now, you're James, and you're going to live for yourself." 

__

  
  
  
Apart of me wants to know for sure whether or not I'm an orphan, but most of the time, that question isn't on the surface of my mind. If my parents were dead, then, so be it. If they were alive, then, good for them. It doesn't matter if my parents were druggies, lawyers, gangsters, rapists, or anything at all. It's not like their existence is affecting me very much at the moment. I don't believe that I am worth less just because my parents abandoned me. I believe that the worst thing you can do is judge someone by his parents, even the parents he doesn't know exists.   
  
  
I believe that graveyards should have no tombstones.   
  
  
I believe that once in a lifetime, a person must get drunk.   
  
  
I believe that no one can truly be right or wrong, good or evil.   
  
  
I believe that Christmas should be celebrated with table lamps.   
  
  
I believe that vengeance is worst choice a person can ever make in a lifetime.   
  
  
I believe that no one can judge another person without living one year in the other's shoes.   
  
  
I believe that death is the beginning of another great adventure. But I'm not ready for it just yet.   
  
  
My name is James and I am alive. I shall live my life any way I please.   
  


  
_- James [ June 17th ] [ St. MaryAnn's Orphanage ]_

  
  


* * *

  
  


The flashbacks between the journal entries are a bit rough since I took them directly from the unrevised versions. They're memories to his past year at the orphanage. It's a bit jerky though, since it has James in different time periods when he was very different; it makes no sense if you've never read the first version. I'm really sorry. But the subdued James was shortly after his hospitalization, when he was still very insecure.   
  
This journal entry probably summarizes all the other flashbacks (if you've read the pervious version), or at least, that's what I tried to do. James is both serious, carefree, childish, but mature at the same time, and I tried to blend all his qualities into the three page entry. It feels blogged, doesn't it? A bit heavy and hard to analyze *sigh* Ack, I'm so sorry!   
  
It is very confusing because the journal entry was interspliced with flashbacks to his orphanage life. I thought perhaps this was more informative, but it just made it more confusing. The first and last flashback took place on the same day, the dates are fairly important. August refers to the year before this is taking place, a few months after James left the hospital (it's very confusing if you haven't read the previous version, isn't it? Ack, I'm so sorry. James was in the hospital roughly 6 weeks, and he was confined to a wheelchair four another 3 afterwards). The dates are very important, keep your eyes out for them!   
  
I hope you don't mind Will taking so much of the spotlight, since he is an original character. I know they're the least favorite thing among fanfiction circles, but for this fic, it's really unavoidable. In the previous version, I had planned to drop him altogether, but his character grew on me and now, I can't seem let him go. He'll stay with the rest of this story not as a key character. I hope he comes across as a real character, as an actual person with definite flaws and someone you can imagine meeting on a street, and not some male version of a mary sue. I hope that no one minds. I was trying to draw parallels between Will and James' friendship to Sirius and James' friendship, but there are still some really definite differences. Will is more bitter and more withdrawn than Sirius had been, much more dangerous because he's so angry at the world, but it balances James (Harry) out because he's not as innocent and funloving as his father. James thinks pranking is terrible, he disapproves of it but does it anyway (he's very contradictory). James is an idealist with very concrete beliefs, somewhat unusual for someone who had lost his memory only a year earlier, but nevertheless, that's the way James is.   
  
Sorry this isn't much of an update. The next chapter is giving me tons of trouble. Sirius either comes out too giddy or too insane, it's a nightmare! I was going to upload this with the next one when it's done, but it's Thanksgiving (in America at least), so this is sort of a well wishing for everyone. I hope you all have a great hoilday!   
  
Dawnclark - flying monkeys? Eep! Are they yellow? *flees*   
  
crimson-dragon - thank you!   
  
Akamu - I'm glad its looking better, and I hope this does turn out better than before.   
  
Lisette - humm... I'll try to avoid it now. I was aiming for a more extensive view on the orphanage, but it was really difficult. The orphanage plays a huge role in shaping James' character, and the older version never quite revealed that. But I was afraid that focusing too much on the orphanage would draw away from the plot, thus all the sidebars. But since you don't find it detracting from the rest of the story, then I'll skip the annoucing altogether. I'm glad you're enjoying it!   
  
Sabre Black - my old versions were horrible! You would never have understood the next chapters because it's been revised so much. Ack! Whip?! *hides*   
  
Char - the rest were terrible! I mean it! So you've never read the previous version? umm... what do you think of the character Will?   
  
Ruse - thank you! Yeah, the vomit scene was a bit... out there. Can you tell that Eric was on LSD? I tried to allude to that, but it ended up being too subtle. Sirius is not nearly as stable was in the previous version. *cackle*   
  
Persephone - the next chapter is a bit of a sink hole. Every time I try the scene, Sirius comes across as being too unstable or too screwed up. Ack ack ack... I will write more soon! I have a mailing list, would you like to join? The link is on my bio page.   
  
Arizosa - thank you! I will!   
  
Cas - thank you! The last version didn't have a plot in the initial chapters, and when I finally decided on one, it was already 7 chapters into the story. It sank and went downhill from there. Yes, I will try to finish before Christmas! But seeing as to how much trouble the next chapter is giving me, ack... I'm still crossing my fingers though.   
  
Jarvey - thank you so much! I hope this interlude wasn't too distracting.   
  
stormyfire - that's great that you think the sidebars aren't too distracting. I hope this journal entry helps with establishing James' character.   
  
Cat in the Hat - I'll try!   
  
Nuts - *nod nod* Will knows many more things than in the last version. And Harry's not going to be as peacefully torn away now that he's actually awake when Sirius drops in. *sigh* things are going to be a lot stranger!   
  
-_- yes! I love long reviews, they're very exciting to read. CoS was great, and the spider scene, in my personal opinion at least, was the best out of the entire movie. How could you miss it?! It was great! Watch it again next time, it's worth it! Although, I must admit, spiders are rather scary. Trading Spaces sounds interesting, interior design... humm... are you planning to take that as your career? Yes, December is going to be very much Remus and Harry centered, especially since he's the only one able to communicate to the poor kid. I decided to hold off on CoS until I finish rewriting WS. It's going to be revamped like PoM, and hopefully more accessible, so CoS is going to be on hiatus for a long long time. As for a sequel to GI, I can't tell you how tempting that is! But I'm still trying to hold off on it, maybe write a new ending to GI so it doesn't leave off so strangely. I have an account at fictionalley actually. I haven't uploaded all my stories there though, just WS and a few chapters of the old PoM. I don't have a live journal, but I have a blog which is essentially the same thing ( http://www.feffi.net/ack ). Will is... well, I can't say until his past comes out. That's okay, spill your theories! *cackle* Happy Thanksgiving to you too! *gets a butcher knife and *thwack!* to the turkey*   
  
Semmel - yeah, I can imagine how everyone would be very upset with me! Luckily, it's only the revised version, so I have some padding around the noose.   
  
Ari - thank you! It's great to see you, you've been disappearing on and off of the late, School must be very busy right now. Will was introduced a lot earlier, since in the last version, I didn't decide Will as being a Lestrange until chapter 5. Ack. I'm trying to cram the orphanage scenes into the early chapters so it wouldn't affect the later ones. The orphanage is actually... not that controlled. A bunch of children under one roof never quite makes for a pretty sight, especially if every child is stubborn and proud. It's great that the new version is coming out better! The next chapter is quite a pain, since that's when James and Sirius are brought in. It's very hard to manage since James isn't quite the same as the last one. *sigh* PoM isn't going to be very violent though, more realistic and not violent. I guess a lot of the tension comes from emotional disputes. It seems that these characters are rapidly becoming just as unstable as the cast of CoS. Eek... I hope everything's going great over there! Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?   
  
Kaydee - wow! It's been quite a while since I've seen such a long rant from you! It brings back the good old days when my muse was still up and running and school wasn't nearly as demanding. Big words? Yeah, reading fanfiction really does help! Big words are definitely not my thing. I use small words to convey big meanings, but unfortunately, it doesn't work nearly as well. But I'm younger, so cut me some slack! Someone who studies words? humm... that's quite a feat! Language is mutating more than ever in this information era, and it's really hard to keep up to date. But its a fun career. Yes, Harry in leather in GI's sequel! I've got the scene all planned out, but now, I'm not sure if I want to put it on paper. Bad Harry lending good Harry clothes, claiming that all he had were leather. So he is forced to put that on, and upon going down stairs, bad Sirius thinks that he looks better in leather than his own godson, since he is thinner, but good Sirius pops many nerves and all hell breaks loose. Yes! *cackle* How is Shei doing by the way, I haven't been hearing from her. And Ally! *sniff* it's so sad! Inverse functions in math? That's not too bad actually. Wait until you get to intergrals! Inverse functions is just replacing y for x and solving. Will knows who James is, which was why he was so upset they recognized him. You'll see more about it. James is really weak actually. He wasn't wearing his arm brace, that's why. Eric didn't vomit that much, but James didn't have the strength to lift it. There is such a thing? I didn't know that! Oh... arug... vomit. I don't even want to know who tested the taste and sampled it, or how they figured what vomit would taste. Will went into the orphanage when he was eight, so he still remembers many things about the wizarding world. He probably won't remember his parents, but he does remember his uncle. I won't tell you what happens in CoS! I told Shei, and no doubt, I ruined the entire story for her. You must not to spoiled! That will ruin the entire thing for you too! Lucius is pronouced Looseeus, triske is right. It's really rather interesting because Luci means light or clear. Lucifer meant the same thing. I wonder if there is any sort of foreshadowsing. And in Hamlet, there are two characters named Cornelius and Voltemand, rather like Cornelius Fudge and Voldemort, aren't they? They're minor servants though, and perhaps that's foreshadowing something.   
  
Sandrine Black - yup! I did revamp PoM very thoroughly, in fact, it's almost being completely rewritten. I hope you're enjoying it so far!   
  
Blizzard - thank you! I wasn't sure how to deal with Will because he falls into the infamous OC category, and knowing how much people hate OC's, he was going to drop out of the story. But then I got attached! Ack... Will's background will be explained soon. I really want to write a sequel to GI, but... *sigh* I donnuo. It wouldn't be that humorous.   
  
Firefox - thank you so much for the chapters! I hope it didn't take too long! Type until my fingers fall off? You're cruel! *wails* Well, my muse is dying because of the excessive amounts of homework, so there aren't much typing going on. humm... you haven't read the previous version? The previous one had cliffies almost at the end of every chapter, it was not fun *cackle*   
  
darkphoenix - thank you! I hope you're enjoying this version.   
  
jesusfreak7777777 - yes, it was! I'm amazed at your memory. I don't remember the title, but I remember the details, not very good for test taking unfortunately. I'm glad you enjoyed it!   
  
shadowaren - at the end, Will was explained to have the last name of Lestrange. If you remember in the HP books, The Lestranges were famous supporters of Voldemort, and Will is their son.   
  
ratgirl - well, I can't say about your speculation, but Will's past will be explained soon! James is going to have quite a shock, and a not that pleasant one when Sirius attempts kidnapping him.   
  
Stephanie - yes, it was! Too bad the next movie isn't coming out until 2 years from now.   
  
Masty2424 - yes, that was James. The bottom version was a flashback to James' orphanage, if you look at the date. I'm sorry if it wasn't clear.   
  
august wynd - the second movie scared you? I thought the spider scene was scarier than the baslisik, but that's just my opinion. And Tom Riddle was neat! Yeah, it is sort of ironic that James became friends with a Lestrange, and that he almost took the name Lestrange. Quite the shock when everyone finds out.   
  
Lucy - yes, James was definitely caught with all the dirty work. Will knows more things in this version, so the conflict will probably be worse. Sirius is a very scary man, what can we say? He jumps out of the darkness, wet from the rain, and tries to suffocate Harry while asking him a very strange question. Not a good thing. James doesn't have the best of impressions from Sirius. Harry in leather *evil cackle* I donnuo if writing GI's sequel is a good idea though.   
  
Rachel A. Prongs - thank you! Ack... the next chapter's taking so long, but its incredibly hard to write because it's so different from the previous version. Ack... the old one is completely being scrapped.   
  
Sugar Quill - I will focus on the story very soon! I wanted to get all the character development out of the way before the story takes off, so the first five chapters are probably the most pointless. The last version really had a feeling of backtreading though, which was why I rewrote it. It got to the point where I lost sight of the rest of the plot, it felt like it was floundering in still water. *sigh* Hopefully, this one will avoid that pitfall.   
  
Hana-chan - thank you so much. I'm glad the sidebars don't feel detracting. James' character was never fully explored in the last version, and trying to belatedly explore it was what hindered the rest of the plot for thirteen chapters. Hopefully, this version would avoid that sinkhole.   
  
Lothey - Will went into the orphanage when he was eight, so he does have a very clear memory of his life among wizards. His parents were already in Azkaban at the time, but he lived with his uncle. He does know his parents are death eaters though. Will has good intentions though; he doesn't particularly like the idea of James returning to the wizarding world. *cackle* Yes, a very insane and metally unstable Sirius and a Harry who remembers nothing is not a good combination. Sorry the next chapter is taking so long, it will be finished soon!   
  
amanda - I have a mailing list, would you like to join?   
  



	6. persistence of misunderstandings

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n 

**The Persistence of Memory**

By neutral

Chapter five - persistence of misunderstandings

_I'd like to think memories in the mind are like ornaments on a Christmas tree. _

_I don't mean that you only see what you like, and those that you don't, you can trade them back in and buy new ones. That'll happen when Will decides to parade down the street in that pair of boxers Eric gave me for my birthday that says 'Use without discretion. May the fittest survive.' _

_Ouch. That was one awful mental image. Moving quickly onward…_

_Instead, imagine the Christmas tree as a mind. Memories, like the ornaments of a tree, decorate it. Some ornaments are repulsive, and the concluding result is a rather unsightly tree, while other ornaments are beautiful, and thus the tree is an elegant, well rounded, pretty thing you can't bring yourself to throw out at New Years._

_When memories are lost, it is like the tree had suffered a terrible moving accident, and all the ornaments had fallen and shattered against the ground. The old decorations cannot be taped together and hung up again. There are still pieces, but they are no longer the same, unless you can magically seal them whole, but magic doesn't exist. You can only redecorate your tree with new ornaments._

_But of course, by then, Christmas would most likely be over and that is just too much trouble to be bothered with._

_Likewise, when memories are forgotten, they are no longer important. They are apart of the past and, sometimes, best left behind in unidentifiable pieces on the floor. _

_I don't mind not remembering. Sometimes, I feel that it is better this way. Its strange, considering most amnesiacs are obsessive with finding their past, but something in the back of my mind urges me to run from it. What I don't remember can't be important. What I don't know can't hurt me. What I did in the past should not and will not affect my future. _

_I am me. I am James. Even if my past does come back to me one day, apart of me will always be James. It won't ever change._

_- James [ March 1st ] [ St. MaryAnn's Orphanage ]_

Harry made a strangled cry that was muffled into a whimper against Sirius' hand. 

The flickering fluorescent lights were dim, but his godson's face was clear like an enlarged photograph, reprinted down to the last detail. The slight curve of his eyebrows, the small groove just above his right ear, the thin scar that was veiled by his thick dark locks… it was Harry. He didn't care what anyone else said, not the boy's insistences that he was not or Remus' urges for him to wait and investigate. This boy was Harry. _He was Harry!_

"It's really you… I wasn't wrong. I knew it," the raggedness of his voice would have been unsettling if he paused to listen, but at the moment, Sirius' thoughts were frozen rigid and spinning in erratic loops. _Harry, Harry, Harry is alive, standing right in front of me, breathing and alive, alive, alive… _

Harry's thin shoulders were heaving through the large, threadbare shirt. His eyes were large and wild. With a desperate twist, Harry freed an arm and swung it blindly at his face, but Sirius caught his wrist and held it tight. 

"What are you doing?" Sirius bit out more aggravatingly than he intended; after the sporadic events, he had been pressed to the edge. There was no spark of recognition in Harry's eyes, just desperate fear. Sirius shook his shoulders in frustration. "Harry, look at me. It's just me!" Sirius whispered.

Harry gave a stifled shout of alarm. Madly, he lashed out, throwing out his arms seemingly out of blind desperation. Sirius saw more than felt Harry's fingers claw across his cheek. The wound was just a scrape of skin but Sirius reeled back as if burned. At the slight slip, Harry twisted free, ducking under Sirius' outstretched arm and diving for the door. Reflexively, Sirius reached out to trap him, his hand closing on an unnaturally thin arm.

There was a deafening crash of breaking china as Harry's elbow tipped a tall stack of plates. 

Sirius paled and Harry's trashing grew desperate. Clamping a hand over Harry's mouth a second time, Sirius drew back into the shadows.

The rain came down in torrents, with large spats of water the size of his knuckles pounding into his face as he stumbled in darkness towards his manor. Sirius followed the path by memory, a hand outstretched to block the low branches and another placed lightly over the slight weight over his shoulder. Harry was silent. Sometime between the moment when he half dragged half carried him through the orphanage's back door to the moment when he ran down the alleyway to apparate, Harry had ceased struggling completely and hung like a limp doll over his shoulder.

He carefully fixed the hood over Harry's head and adjusted the cloak, ignorant of the water pounding over him. The boy was light and he was thin; the water-logged cloak felt heavier than him. Sirius examined the Harry's face fixedly, trying hard to remind himself that it was not a dream, that he was alive and breathing and well; through the rain, Sirius could only see the dim light refracting from Harry's glasses. But it was, it had to be. Harry… he had been frightened because he couldn't discern Sirius' face in the dimly lit kitchen. 

Sirius pushed his pace. It would be bright once inside. 

The manor loomed ahead, dark and imposing through the rain and the thick ring of trees surrounding it. After fourteen years of neglect, the ivy framing the walls had grown across the windows, until the entire residence bore the appearance of abandonment. Sirius never restored it.

The rippling prickle across his arms signified the first set of protection barriers passed, and the heavy oak doors swung open for him on its own accord. The overhead lights brightened systematically as entered the room, his drenched coat soaking the floor and leaving muddied boot prints on the carpets.

He wasn't quite sure where he was going. He climbed the stairs in a numb daze, aware of only the barely audible breathing against his ear and the sound of his footsteps padding softly through the halls. Sirius found himself pushing open an oak door and entering a room that he was only recognized the morning after, and pushed back the blankets to a previously made bed.

Sirius knelt and carefully eased the boy from his shoulder. Harry's head lolled back against his arm as he was shifted, and Sirius stilled again. Tentatively, he brushed a few locks of wet hair back from Harry's face and let his fingers linger over the pale scar that cut across his forehead. Stiffly, he switched on a nearby lamp that illuminated Harry's face in sharp detail.

Sirius choked on a gasp of air he hadn't realized he had been holding. Something in him was itching to break, a torrent rushing and heaving against a crumbling wall, and he wanted to sink to his knees, scream himself hoarse, and envelope his godson in a suffocating hug all at once. A year… a year of thinking Harry had been dead, rotting a gutter, he had been alive, and well, and…

//_'Oh, you mean that one who was with that troublemaker?' the café owner spoke in slow mumblings tones, and if Sirius hadn't been breathless and shaking from the run, he would throttled her in his impatience. 'The dark haired one, thinner than a stick? They're St. MaryAnn's children, but why are you…?'_ \\

St. MaryAnn… he had stopped listening to the woman after that and had taken off running in the opposite direction. Sometime that afternoon, he even shook Remus off and went hunting down the place on his own. It was harder to find than the Room of Requirement on a moody day…

Sirius' hand shook as he lowered Harry against the four-poster. Peeling back the waterproof cloak, Sirius pulled back the dry blanket and tucked the boy in bed. 

All those months of grieving, Harry had only been a few miles away from Diagon Alley. Sirius didn't know what to think. All those times, they had been _so close_. Sirius held his breath, fighting the ridiculous urge to scowl and smile at the same time. Why did it feel as if the entire world had been against him?

Sirius pulled up a chair beside the bed and stared at the boy listlessly. _Why weren't you found sooner? _

A hazy minute passed before Sirius was aware of the hand resting against his shoulder. He threw it off with a jolt and stood quickly. Sirius stilled when he recognized his visitor.

Remus' face was drawn. He wore no coat, an obvious sign that he had been waiting for Sirius in his home for some time, but Sirius couldn't recall seeing him as he passed the living room. 

"Where have you been?"

"I…" Sirius licked his lips, his throat suddenly very dry.

Remus frowned, but when his eyes flickered to the form Sirius had been shielding, everything slipped.

"You… what have you done?" Remus quietly whispered. 

Sirius would have shrugged that question off without a word on normal occasions, but that clipped and accusing tone incited a surge of indignant anger that felt foreign. Setting his jaw stubbornly, Sirius glared back in silence.

Remus had suggested leaving Harry until they received further information. Always the cautious one, Sirius knew, but he still couldn't help feeling the sharp sting of betrayal. After a year of blind wandering, while his godson was some unknown institution, Sirius' thoughts were running in circles about how to get Harry back, but Remus had told him to go to _Dumbledore_. It was the headmaster who lost Harry last year; why would he involve Dumbledore into another situation Harry was involved in? Dumbledore made too many mistakes Harry had to pay for…

Remus grimaced, "You've completely flung caution to the wind, Sirius."

"I was not going to leave Harry there," Sirius whispered vehemently. 

"It was only for a while, maybe not even a day," Remus stared at the sleeping boy fixedly as he spoke. "I contacted St. MaryAnn's for a file matching Harry's description, and…"

"But he is Harry!" Sirius angrily cut in. "You don't need to…"

Remus wearily shook his head, "Something must have been wrong for him to run like that."

"He just couldn't see us clearly," Sirius stubbornly insisted, his eyes hard. "This boy… his eyes, his hair, his face, his scar… _everything_! He _is _Harry!" 

"Sirius…"

"Don't try to deny it!" Sirius hissed out, his voice rising to a harsh shout. He had a vague idea that he sounded almost hysterical. "I don't care what you say. I don't care if you think I'm going _ insane_. I know this is my godson, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise!"

"I wasn't trying to tell you that he isn't Harry!" Remus shot back, although his tone was considerably softer and even a little wary. "This boy looks like Harry in every way. There's no way he could be, but this morning, he was obviously very frightened, as if he didn't recognize us. Something was wrong…"

Sirius bit his lip and turned his face away.

"And you _kidnapped _him," Remus continued softly. "I knew you were going to do something rash when I left, but I never thought… do you have any idea how many laws you are breaking?"

"I don't care," Sirius stonily replied.

Remus' mouth hardened into a thin line, but that softened as his gaze drifted back to the sleeping boy. It was a long time before Remus spoke again. 

"Sirius, I _know _you're upset. I know that all these things" Remus gestured distantly with a wave of his hand, "affected you much more than you let us see, or perhaps you don't even see it. Harry's disappearance was the last straw, and what Severus said to you that day was the last thing… Sirius, I that you somehow think all of this is your…"

…god, he was being _pitied_.

Sirius wanted to yell out with bruised pride, but his throat seemed to have adhered to his windpipe. It was so utterly _ insulting_, made worse as it was Remus…

Damn it, he didn't need to be pitied, much less from Remus. One moment, Sirius had been defending his godson, but the next, Remus had twisted the entire issue around to him as if it had been entirely his own fault that he was acting that way. And then, he looped Azkaban and Snape into the argument as well, as if that in some convoluted way was involved with Harry's disappearance. Yes, as if it had been his fault, as if everything that had happened had been his fault! Why wouldn't he just go away and let him be?!

"What I'm saying isn't doing much good, is it?" Remus whispered. It wasn't a question at all. 

"What _are_ you trying to say? That I didn't do this? That I didn't make Harry disappear?" Sirius gritted his teeth, glaring at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "I know I didn't do those things! I…" His voice cracked. Sirius drew a long breath and buried his face in his hand wearily, "you know what, I don't care. Say want you want."

Remus didn't speak but gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Sirius couldn't help but notice the hesitation reflected in his face, as if he were approaching some sort of ferocious and untamed beast in their dangerous creatures class. 

"Don't look at me like that." Sirius frowned, shrugging off Remus' hand sharply.

"I'm sorry."

Remus' words were soft and calm, but the expression that crossed his face was the first signs of pain Sirius had seen in years. He felt regretful, suddenly, but he was too weary to say anything apologetic. Sirius stiffly turned away from Remus and focused on Harry's hands.

"You're both soaked," Remus said softly. His professor façade firmly in place, he dried them both with a lift of his wand. "Let's talk and let Harry sleep in peace, okay? You haven't eaten since this morning."

Remus sounded soothing, and Sirius found his frustration slowly dissipating. He sighed, suddenly aware of how weary the previous events had left him and how weary he felt. Stealing another glance at Harry, Sirius managed a slight nod in compliance.

//   
  
_He could never quite ignore that beeping. That was what he woke up to, that was what he fell asleep listening. The calm, rhythmic drumming of the heart… James had tried holding his breath sometimes to make it go faster. But after a while, listening to it became aggravating…_

_  
He wanted it to be quiet for once, shut the stupid thing off and let him be. Or listen something else. He wanted to hear a person's voice, anyone's, just as long as it was different. But no one ever came to see him. The other had families, but who did he have? He couldn't even remember… _

_He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. He racked his mind for any semblance of a face, but all he seemed to grasp were empty shadows. He tried so hard everyday but all he could get were blinding headaches that seemed to slit his head in half. _

_He hated this room. The whiteness, the cleanness, the emptiness. He wanted to hurl on the floor if that just meant he could add some flaws to the damned purity of the place. _

_He hated how the nurse would always set his bland tray of food in front of him with her pinky daintily raised, and the way the custodian tried not to look in his eyes as he cleaned the floor, and the way visitors peeked inside curiously as they walked down the corridor. _

_He wanted to get out; why didn't anyone come?_

_'He's still not identified?' _

_  
The nurse was back again. Voices, people to keep him company even if he couldn't speak with them. He would have breathed a small sigh of relief if he didn't know it would hurt. Damn broken ribs… _

_  
'No. None of those pictures matched.' _

_  
'Poor boy. How old is he?' _

_  
'We tried to do a skeletal scan, but he seems to have suffered malnutrition sometime in his past. It's hard to say. We're guessing around fourteen.' _

_  
'Did you see those cuts? He wasn't hit by a car.' _

_  
'Yes, I know. And that burn in the shape of a skull on his back. We probably need to surgically remove it.' _

_  
'That burn's been there at least three days. Those injuries were spread over a period of a week. He wasn't hit by a car. If you ask me, I say he was kidnapped. He probably can't remember because he doesn't want to.'   
  
'Post Traumatic Stress doesn't make you lose your memory completely, you know that. It's got to be some sort of head injury.' _

_  
A grunt. 'He just has a minor concussion. He was most likely kidnapped and tortured. Who knows what his family did.' _

_  
'Are you saying…?'_

_'They probably didn't want to pay the ransom, that's what I'm saying…'_

_'Oh, that poor boy. The memory loss really seems like a blessing, doesn't it?' _

\\ 

James slid his eyes open before his mind clear, his thoughts sluggish and his limbs heavy. For a frozen second, he thought he heard the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the nurses' whispered words. He was caught in the drug induced daze again, watching dreams fly by without any sense of reality or fantasy, unable to discern which were real and which were false; with half an ear, he listened greedily to those visitors speaking with the patients of the nearby rooms, and with the other, listened to the droning rhythm of the monitor. James' breath hitched painfully in his chest in panic.

But the ceiling was red. 

James was awake with a jerk, eyes darting frantically through the room. But instead of the whitewashed walls of the hospital, a richly ornate chamber met his eyes. James gaped when he took in the four-poster bed with vermilion overhangs, the roaring fireplace which burned with warm and crackling fire, and the neat set of matching divans that were aligned close to his bed. The walls were simple but intricate all at once, laced elegantly with gold vines and intertwined themselves all the way to the ceiling. James squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, taking deep calming breaths that failed to calm him down.

_He was dreaming, he had to be dreaming. This was another one of those strange dreams he had that never made any sense. This was like the chamber he imagined at the hospital: a red and gold room ringed with six four posters, when he had still been desperately searching his mind for his memories. But he no longer tried to remember, where did this…?_

Tentatively, James pushed the covers back, reluctant to even wrinkle the rich sheets. The velvet felt thick and very expensive, and James was sure they cost a fortune just to maintain. The carpet luxurious, looking thick enough to swallow up his entire foot. James gulped nervously, feeling out of place in his tattered, hand-me-down clothes. 

Slowly, he eased himself up, and nearly cried out at the sharp pang of pain that cut across his side. Drums pounded his head mercilessly and the slight movement and he fought to hold back a groan. His throat felt skinned. There was a slight ache in the point right between his eyes. James relaxed against the bed, recognizing all the signs in an instant; within a few hours, he was going to be bedridden with yet another fever.

But he had been only in the rain for…

_// There was a blur of black at the corner of his eye. It was odd, it felt odd, like he had been watched like a senseless prey and when a cold hand clamped tightly over his mouth, he knew that he was in more trouble than ever before. And that stranger dragged him, trashing and screaming, through the back doors with a grip so tight around his ribs that he could barely even breathe…_ \\

Abruptly, the past events flooded back to him in vivid details, nearly suffocating him as the stranger nearly had. James bit his lip until it began to hurt. He had been kidnapped. Kidnapped, just like those doctors described… 

// _It was dark. He couldn't move. There were walls on all sides, and he was trapped in a darkness that looked black but smelled red, with his eyes caked and seal shut like tape over a cracking window. A word, a laugh, and then something dug into him, carving into his arm, twisting until he was screaming on the top of his lungs even though he knew not one person was there to help him and only one person there to hear him and that one person wanted to hear him scream. And James was kicking out, knowing that this wasn't how he wanted it to end, and knowing how he didn't want to die… \_\

James' hands knotted in the bed sheets as he clenched them into fists. His breath was coming in erratic gasps and he was shaking uncontrollably; he knew he was beginning to panic. That voice in the back of his mind was shrieking out in fear, but knowing at the same time, that where would be no one to help when he truly needed help. Darkness, they were going to lock him in darkness, lock him… lock him… like… _no, no, no!! _

_I'm going to die…_

*


	7. persistence of failed escapes

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n [1] binary fission - the way of the bacteria. A bacteria reproduces by growing large and splitting in the middle, becoming two bacteria. James is very much a bookworm, but there will be a reason for that.

The proof is a bit odd, isn't it? I was going to prove it with physics, but that's so much harder. You'll just have to deal with basic chemistry equations. A theory can be disproven with only one example, which is why James uses only one example to disprove this theory. The proof doesn't work by the way. The data is skewed. The kilocalories of energy were taken from fat of a yogurt rather than normal kilocalories. It should really be about 2 bunnies per 1.*sigh* oh well, pretend that you don't know that. And please don't check the math for that one; I did it by hand.

Sorry about the subtle shift in tone in the journal entries of these chapters. Ack… I hope no one's bothered by them. They're used to balance out a mood of a chapter, to keep something from becoming too depressing or tense, or to make something happy, dark and ominous. Does it work?

// …. \\ denotes flashbacks

Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter six - persistence of desperate escapes

_This will be the first of several proofs why the theory of magic is not valid (Will put me up to this, I really have better things to do with my time, well… ack)._

_Reason one: let's take something specific from magic, dragons for instance. They are the ferocious beasts that prey on pitiful animals one-tenth their size in those magical tales. By definition, they are large, fire breathing, airborne beasts._

_By the ecological law, all animals can only absorb ten percent of the energy in a meal, meaning, if dragons were to have the ability to spit fire, they would have to devour the food ten times that amount of energy output. _

_Lets say at one puff of fire, they can heat 1,000,000 grams of water from room temperature (that's barely enough to roast one rabbit) to boiling point. The amount of energy required for that act would be:_

_1,000,000 g x (100 °C - 25 °C) x 4.184 J/g °C = 313,800,000 J_

_A 300 gram yogurt contains roughly 125,520 joules of energy. _

_To boil that water, they would need to burn about 2,500 yogurts. Since dragons can only use ten percent of the food they consume, they must eat 25,000 yogurts just to boil 1,000,000 grams of water, or burn half a bunny rabbit. As a result, they must consume at about 7½ bunny rabbits to burn 1. This is disregarding the fact that they need to use energy hauling their huge bodies to chase the poor little bugger._

_This problem could be bypassed if dragons were to carry nuclear reactors within their bodies, in which case they would be radioactive and self destruct their own DNA (that would derive hundreds of dragon mutants, and probably even render most of them sterile. Maybe dragons reproduce by binary fission [1]? But they're suppose to lay eggs like birds… ack… this is making less and less sense by the minute) Or if dragons were to receive free lunch buffets, have generous parents to burn their food for them, or use the black widow theory of eating their mates, or self consume, or follow the pandaism way of eating trees at hard times, otherwise, they will die. _

_Moving onto fire. The heat of a fire does not travel only in the forward direction. If that is the case, then the only part of a fireplace that's warm is at the top of a chimney. Heat radiates outward in a cloud; every blast of fire the dragon breathes, they will suffer a whiplash. _

_Dragons must have eyes of steel, otherwise, they will go blind. They must live in areas with low oxygen content, otherwise, they will spontaneously combust. They must have scales reinforced from heat damage, otherwise, they will kill themselves within hours. But if they did, their skin would be so heavy that their large bodies will no longer be capable of supporting themselves against gravity, unless their skeletons are thick enough to support them. In any case, they probably couldn't even walk with all that bulk._

_And I haven't even gotten to the part about dragons supposedly being able to fly yet. (*splat goes the weasel*) They must have the wingspan of about twenty times their body lengths, and that would only work if a dragon was anorexic. Not to mention the kind of damage they would bring just trying to lift off. _

_If dragons did exist, then we'd be seeing crop circles, mutilated rabbits, and explosions from spontaneous combustions in much larger proportions._

_End of proof one._

_- James [May 21st ] [ St. MaryAnn's Orphanage ]_

James cautiously slid his hand across the table and carefully lifted the elegant vase. The glass was rattling between his fingers; he could hear it click against his watch as he trembled. James drew several shaking breaths, but every gasp seemed to lodge like a piece of stone bone in his throat. Haltingly, he held out the vase at arms length and swung it with a few practiced attempts.

_Door creak open, raise hands and swing down, right over the strange man's head… _ James tried to picture the action in his mind's eye and inwardly cringed. _It_ _looked rather painful. Perhaps he shouldn't swing hard, just enough to stun him and buy James time to run. But would he be able to hit the man's head? He seemed awfully tall… maybe James should swing at his stomach, or maybe… _

James pressed his back against the wall beside the door, heart pounding hard enough for him to feel the tremors in his fingers. He was going to get out of this alive, James told himself firmly. But even as he repeated that thought incessantly in his mind, his stomach had already begun to sink. With his arm brace still at the orphanage and his ribs throbbing at every footfall, how far could he run? He could probably cover two minutes of straight sprinting without keeling over.

_Hit that stranger hard… to hell with trying not to hurt him too seriously… _James stubbornly set his jaw.

A soft creak. 

James froze; the blood from the tips of his fingers to the roots of his hair felt replaced with lemon drops, stiff, grainy, and sour. The door knob—James in his panicked fit couldn't help but notice the slight chip on the gold paint at the keyhole—gave a slow jerk to the right. James took a startled and involuntary step back. 

Where had been the footsteps he had been anticipating? _Oh, damn the carpet… damn, damn, damn!!_

But before he had the time to recover from the shock, the door was gliding soundlessly on oiled hinges, swinging open as if in slow motion, tearing out his sinews. James didn't pause to listen to voices. He didn't pause to look at faces, or even notice that there was more than one person coming through the door, or what they looked like. He could almost feel something cracking within him.

With a strangled cry that sounded more like a whimper, James swung the vase with the madness of a hunted animal. He wasn't even conscious of how hard, just that he was bringing his arms down at an enemy that was dangerous and he wanted to escape. _Just swing, hit, and run. Swing, hit, run. _James lashed out. He was trapped in a nightmare or one of those really bloody video games, and all he could do was mechanically cut down everything in his path.

// _I… I'm not going to let you win… I'll die before I let you win… _\\

"Harry?!" a startled voice sliced through that dream-like haze like a red hot wire. 

James gasped, feeling as if had been starved of air for several minutes, and was suddenly painfully aware of the hand clasped around his wrist. The stranger with the tangled back hair had caught his arm almost effortlessly, but James still clung to the vase like a lifeline. For a moment, they stared at each other numbly; the stranger's pale eyes were wide in surprise and James knew he probably looked much worse.

It was over. 

The vase slipped through James' fingers and fell onto the thick carpet with a dull thud. Trembling nearly uncontrollably, James wretched his wrist free and took slow steps back. The dark haired man was frowning at he stared at James, as if he couldn't quite absorb what had just happened. He looked like a fugitive. The clothes he wore weren't shabby, but that glint in his eyes—James only saw that expression reflected in the homeless men he passed when he crossed the shoddy areas of town.

Someone moved forward.

James abruptly noticed the second man behind the dark haired stranger. They were from the café, James noted with a churning stomach. They were the two men at the café Will tried to warn him against. _ Trouble, they would get him into trouble. _Breathing heavily, James backed up until he felt the four-poster against the back of his knees.

The two strangers stopped at the bedroom door, resolutely barring James' path to freedom. James frenziedly scanned the room for another vase.

"Harry…?" the dark haired man whispered. 

The sandy haired man took a hesitant step forward and paused, uncertain. Something about his gait threw up the professor signs in the back of James' mind. "What were you doing?" he asked quietly.

"You… you're…" James paused in his stuttering to breathe.

_'What the hell are you doing? What the hell do you want with me? Why the hell are you calling me Harry?!' _ James breathed hard. He desperately hoped he didn't look half as frightened as he felt. 

They were pinning him with stares that were unnerving in their intensity. James shrank back, dragging the sleeves of his shirt over his wrist out of nervous habit. The dark-haired man, the fugitive, took a slow step forward and James felt as if he had just treaded on his gut. 

With no other place to go, James bolted.

As to how he managed, James couldn't even remember; he was vaguely aware of diving past the fugitive and nearly knocking the professor to the floor as he scrambled for the door. Flashes of passageways, ancient paintings, and delicate decorative cupboards raced past him as he pounded down the corridor. He was blindly running; he couldn't even recall the twists and turns in the hallway.

His footsteps were deafening in an empty house; James wasn't sure if they were pursuing him but he never stopped to look. Blindly, he sprinted past the countless doors, his bare feet skidding across the rumpled rug. _How large was this place? Where the hell was the exit? _He felt like he was running in circles in a where there was no escape… just endless corridors leading into middle where there was a huge monster waiting to devour him.But James kept running. He wasn't sure what the halls around him looked, except he had no idea where he was or where the door was. _But I have to escape…_

He was going to live… live, live, live! He wasn't ready to die just yet! He didn't want to die just yet… James was barely aware of his erratic gasping.

// _Someone, please help me! Please… please… _\\

The familiar clink was in his side, gnawing at his lungs. Every breath he took sent flashes of pain through his ribs. 

_Damn it, no!! Run, breathe, run, breathe… oh god…_

That voice was back, mumbling something incoherent… hopes, dreams, wishes of some long dead child. It soft voice that whispered in the back of his mind when he was alone, and he knew there was no one in the world who would help him or care. When he was truly in trouble, there was no one. 

// _No one… no one… no one!! _ \\

He hated this. He hated being helpless; he hated losing control of his life; he hated being dragged into a fight he couldn't win. Fights were fought to be won; he couldn't afford to lose! But how could he win like this…?

// _I'm not going to die. I'm not going to let you win… _\\

His once broken ribs where throbbing again, eating into his lungs as he ran. It was a miracle he even survived with so many shattered into fragments a year ago, but the damage had been done. With every step he took, he could feel a hot stab of fire in his chest. His steps were faltering, and the room was beginning to swim in his eyes.

A sharp tug on his ankle threw off balance and flung him off his feet. James struck the floor hard, but the blood pounding in his ears numbed all the pain. James crawled to his knees in a desperate attempt to stand, but his lungs were screaming for air. All he managed to do was hutch over in a defensive ball as he choked and gasped for breath. 

// _… I'm not going to die until I take you with me! _\\

Suddenly, hands were on his shoulders, cautiously pulling him to his feet. Stuttering incoherently, James fought against his captor, trashing and clawing at the arm.

"Harry, its okay, it's just me!"

"No… let go!" James fitfully resisted, clawing at the stranger's hands. The echoes of a memory was haunting the edges of his mind, and he was sounding vaguely hysterical. 

_Get away… he had to get away!_ That thought was reverberating in his ears, slamming against the sides of his skull as if struggling to burst free, and all he could feel was that overwhelming and blinding fear. 

"Harry, what's wrong with you?" the fugitive hoarsely whispered. James cringed when he felt the hand on his shoulder tighten almost painfully.

_What was wrong with me? _ James didn't know. It was as if some feral and ferocious instinct had taken over his mind, and he was acting out of pure impulse. 

James tried to stand again but he was trembling too hard. His legs felt boneless and refused to stay straight, and the stranger had to catch him before he sank to his knees. James should have felt embarrassed, humiliated even, with the way that the stranger held him up by the shoulders as if he were just a small child, but James was too shaken, too numb. The stranger was the only thing keeping him standing and James clung to his arm and trembled until he felt as though he was going to shatter.

"Is he alright?"

"Yes, don't worry. He's only exhausted. Sirius, get some water."

James leaned back in the chair and stared blankly at his hands, wondering when the day had gone wrong. Ever since that morning, everything had become so strange. The sun had rose with the stars aligned for his doom, and now James felt too drained to even protest his fate. When the fugitive picked him up like a small boy in the corridor, James couldn't even find the voice to protest. 

Had he done something awful without meaning to, and now a curse had fallen over his head? All in one day, he had been misidentified, kidnapped, then pursued like some hunted animal, and now held captive… somewhat. James dazedly watched the fugitive retrieve the water pitcher and the professor pulling out mugs seemingly out of thin air. 

It was so utterly strange to be treated like a guest in this situation.

"You should get something solid in you, but I'm afraid we have nothing here at the moment. Drink something. You'll feel better."

The professor held out a mug filled with something that looked like water and smelled like water, but James didn't take it. He looked at the stranger quizzically.

"I still have your coat," James suddenly remarked.

"Oh," the professor blinked, as if just remembering. "That's alright."

"I'm sorry about taking off with it. I should have remembered to return it." 

James felt rather numb and wondered if it was healthy.

"That's quite alright."

"I'm sorry about your coffee too," James added, nodding at the fugitive. "And that really loud interruption. That was partly my fault. Didn't mean it to get out of hand like that."

The two strangers didn't even bother trying to fill up the silence this time. They simply stared at him like a specimen on display. The professor's gaze was guarded but piercing; the fugitive's eyes were like an open book. James glanced at him once and quickly turned away, unable to bear his stare.

"Why did you kidnap me?" James finally thought to ask.

The fugitive jerked as if James had slapped him.

"Harry," his voice cracked at the name. "Why are you…?"

James cringed; he was beginning to hate that name. 

"No, I'm not. I've told the two of you before, I'm not Harry." James said with deliberate calmness. Mentally, he was panicking all over again; he never wanted to hear that name ever again!

The fugitive wore the expression of someone betrayed. "Why are you doing this? What are you… was it because we did something wrong? You don't want to come home? Is that why?" He sounded desperate.

"I'm not Harry," James said unsteadily; the tremors were coming back. "I… I don't know who the hell he is. Honestly! If you're looking for him, I don't know where he is. I'm sorry, I can't help you. What… what does he look like? He probably looks a lot like me… but I'm not Harry, I… is he related to you? Or…" 

Instead of pain, anger flashed in the fugitive's bleached eyes. He made a motion of moving forward, but the professor look-alike crossed the room and blocked him.

The fugitive sidestepped the professor and James scrambled unsteadily to his feet. 

"Sirius, wait," the professor said with deliberate calmness.

He was completely ignored. The fugitive lurched forward and, panicking, James scooted back. His legs were felt watery as he tried to walk; James couldn't figure out whether they trembled from anxiety or fatigue. He ducked the four-poster, the furthest he could be without cornering himself.

"What are you talking about?" those words were spat out in a near shout. He kept pressing forward, and James skirted away from him. "Stop pretending, Harry! What sort of game are you trying to pull? I know you're Harry! You have that scar!"

"Sirius, stop. Let him speak!"

"I'm not!" Instinctively, James backed away from the fugitive, and staggered when his legs unexpectedly crumbled beneath him. He caught his balance out of sheer luck when his arm snagged the curtains. "I… ow! I've never seen the two of you before. I have no idea who the hell you are!"

James tried to untangle his arm from the cloth, but the fugitive grabbed him before he could run again. There was a distinct sound of ripping fabric as the both yanked in opposite directions, before James clambered up and skirted away. 

"I'm not!! I… you have the wrong person! Oh god… this is not happening… I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming…" 

The fugitive was scowling deeply. "Your eyes, those are Lily's eyes! And your face… I know you're Harry!" 

"… insane. You must be… Christ, Will was right…" James backed himself into the wall, waving feebly with his hands in a disarming gesture. "I've told you at least five times that I'm not Harry! Honestly, I… I'm James!"

That must have been the wrong thing to say, or the right thing, because the two strangers abruptly fell silent. 

"If you're looking for a person named Harry, couldn't you post fliers? I… I've really never met him!" James continued hopelessly. He knew he was rambling, but he was too frightened to stop. "A lot of people have scars and green eyes. Honestly, I'm James! Everyone at the orphanage calls me James! You could go ask them!"

That, again, must have been the wrong thing so say. Remus suddenly paled at the statement, drawing a sharp gasp through clenched teeth. A look that made James' stomach wrench passed over Sirius' face.

"Orphanage?" he whispered. "Why… orphanage?"

"I live there…" James chewed his lip, feeling a strange reluctance to go on. "I've lived a year there… ever since I… I…" he flattered. 

The room was beginning to swim. James staggered and sank his weight against the wall.

Something so obvious had been staring back at him in the face, but he had fought it tooth and nail all the way. He let his head fall and wrung his sleeve as a distraction to avoid the sight of the strangers' faces. 

'_What if they did really know me? I don't remember anything from a year ago!'_ His words to Will just hours ago rang almost mockingly in his ears. He had only been living a year in his memories… but that wasn't true at all…

James swallowed and hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet the two strangers'. 

"I… don't know if my name's really James…" and it hurt to admit that. 

*


	8. persistence of denial

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n this proof is solely based on biology. Unlike chemistry or physics, which is just common sense the majority of the time, biology is based mostly on facts directly from a text book. It probably will make absolutely no sense if you've never taken a life science course. A lot of these things James mentions are complex, like the controls regulating a cell's mitosis sequence and the reproduction of viruses, and he skims over it without really addressing what they are. Umm… It's not that important, just skip over them. I'm really sorry about an confusion!

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter seven - persistence of denial

_Werewolves: by definition they are humans who transform into wolves at the light of the full moon and suddenly become ferocious, blood thirsty creatures who rip other humans apart. In myths, they are portrayed as strong, but lonesome creatures who wander by either two or four feet (those books were never clear), with killer raptor claws._

_Suppose the strain of the werewolf cruse is a virus like HIV: it incorporates itself into the infected person's DNA and manifests itself when the time is right. Viruses have capsules that are protein specific, in other words, they only affect a certain type of cells. _

_If there is a virus that causes a person to change completely into a wolf during a certain time of month, then every single cell of his body must be inflected. For a virus to possess such versatility, it must 1) spend hours working overtime in protein identification, 2) grow extremely fat in order to carry all of those identification proteins 3) be so fat that it can no longer function as a working virus and 4) die. In which case, it'll croak before it went anywhere past the carrier's bloodstream._

_But assuming it did. If a virus went to the extend of infecting every single cell in a person's body, that person would have entities in his body mechanically chopping up his DNA and inserting new sequences. (viruses are the third largest cancer inducing agent. If a person is at risk from getting cancer just having the flu, then what would happen to someone who had every single cell in his body altered? *Jaws music plays in background*). _

_DNA controls growth and death of cells. The little virus goes in and pulls the birth control pill part. The cell insanely divides. The majority of the werewolf population would be developing massive tumors and cancerous bodies. They'd spend fortunes on chemotherapy. They'd all be dirt poor. They'd all be bald. They'd all die within five years. If werewolves existed once, they're dead now._

_But assuming the werewolf virus is kind and doesn't destroy the go / no-go genes, thus sparing the victim from cancer. How do full moons in particular trigger a transformation? Moonlight is a reflection of sunlight. Sunlight is composed of waves, namely ultraviolet, infrared, and waves of the visible spectrum. Since we cannot get a tan from moonlight, ultraviolet is not reflected by the moon. And since moonlight doesn't heat up patches on the earth, we can eliminate infrared from the category as well. _

_Moonlight is composed mostly of waves from the visible spectrum, which is composed of photons. If photons can trigger the virus to react, then you can make a werewolf transform by just shining a flashlight on him. And since I haven't seen anyone spontaneously change into a wolf of the late while waving that flashlight around, I am safely assuming that the majority of people in the area are not werewolves._

_Or maybe it only works with reflected sunlight in particular, because the moon has a unique touch which is oh so special and no one knows about it, like some top notch chef in those dressy restaurants. If moonlight specifically were to trigger a transformation, then any phase of the moon remotely close to full would force him out of whack. In which case, we'd be hearing a lot of howling at night and the price of silver would shoot up to the skies (why the hell are werewolves weak against silver? Is it some sort of massive allergic reaction?)._

_This is still neglecting the fact that they're suppose to lose about four ribs, a couple thousand brain cells, and grow massive amounts of hair and nails every day of the month. I'd say they must all eat like sumo wrestlers. And weren't they suppose to be dirt poor?_

_In which case, if werewolves did exist, they must have cells like bacteria with little ringlets of DNA separate from its genome (that's the only way to keep them from spontaneously transforming from street lamps, flashlights, and car headlights) which happen to have the perfect biological clock to insert themselves into the rest of the chromosomes in thirty day cycles. They must be either disgustingly rich or dirt poor to afford all those chemotherapy sessions, either that or be single-celled thus sparing him from cancer. They must all look anorexic. They must all be bald. They must all be in jail for noise pollution. _

_Just out of curiosity though. If there is such a thing as werewolves, do they ever PMS?_

_- James [May 21st ] [ St. MaryAnn's Orphanage ]_

And then he was leaking like a cracked dam; James found himself spluttering words he would have never admitted to two nameless strangers. 

"I… I can't remember. My name is James. Well, I think I'm James… but I'm not sure…"

He cringed; even to his own ears, his words sounded ridiculous. Just minutes ago, he was practically shrieking at them that his name was James.

The fugitive was still and James tried to avoid looking at him. The professor was perplexed, but the expression on his face cut James to the core with its intensity.

"Who are you?" James suddenly blurted out.

The fugitive flinched.

"You're not Harry?" the professor asked a low whisper, frowning in consideration.

"No, I'm not! I mean…" James drew an unsteady breath when his voice wavered. The headache was beginning to set in; he could feel it gnawing behind his eyes. James drew a trembling hand over his forehead agitatedly and his fingers came away moist with sweat. "I can't remember anything. I… did Harry disappear?"

The professor stared at him hard. When he finally spoke, he sounded remarkably restrained. "Yes. He disappeared last year. It was on June 24th that he…"

The rest of the professor's faded into silence, a phrase echoing repeatedly in his head. _Disappeared… June 24th… _That was exactly one week before he was found, sixteen days before he regained consciousness. All the arrows were pointing to him: his face, his eyes, his disappearance were undeniable evidence. _I'm not James, I could be Harry… _

He could almost see the life that he had known and accepted for the past year crumbling into pieces. Trembling, James buried his face in his hands, hoping that with some twisted miracle, he'd be back at St. MaryAnn's when he opened his eyes. The urge to run returned twice as strong.

"… it could be a coincidence," James whispered firmly to himself.

The fugitive's breathing seemed to grow heavier. He had the appearance of someone struck and stabbed too many times. "Harry, is this… what is this that you're trying to…?"

"I don't remember! I don't remember anything!" Those words came out in a shout maddened with frustration. James clenched his hands into fists. "I… I lost my memory a year ago. I don't know who I am."

He felt weighted down. James could hear the blood pounding in his head as he stared at the carpet under his feet.

"But I… I think I'm James," James muttered agitatedly. He sounded more fearful and defensive than anything else. "That's what I told the nurse."

The professor was painfully still. "How did this happen?"

James shrugged helplessly. He was breathless, James noted dimly, but the room felt so _hot_…

"I don't know. They found me close to the road, so they sort of assumed I was hit by a car, but after a while, they gave that up…" James looked at his hands, then at the floor. Anywhere but the two strangers. "They couldn't diagnose me with anything concrete, and I didn't have any brain damage or anything. They figured it was some really off form of Post Traumatic Stress."

"You remember nothing?" the professor whispered.

"Nothing. When I woke up a year ago, I… I didn't even know what the color of my eyes was…" James chewed his lip, feeling oddly embarrassed for admitting that. "There was no file for a missing child that matched mine, and they sent me to the orphanage. It was a more permanent thing… They all figured, well… yeah…" 

James fell silent, confused even by his own his incoherent phrases. He was beginning to feel unnaturally warm, and the fabric of his coarse shirt was itchy against his skin. Nervously, he scrubbed at his neck. The headache, previously ignored, was returning full force and the bright lights scattered throughout the chamber felt like little knives. 

Squinting, he ran a hand over his clammy forehead. His hands were beginning to shake with feverish tremors. _Why was the air so thick…? _

The room gave an odd tilt to the right.

"He's ill," came a distant murmur.

Somewhere through the feverish haze, James felt an icy hand on his brow, brushing strands of hair back from his face. Instinctively, James turned away from the foreign gesture, but at the slight movement, the pounding in his head intensified. James groaned.

"He was in the rain too long… feverish…"

James tried to shake his head. It wasn't the rain, James tried to explain, but throat felt scrapped with sandpaper, it could be something else. There was a cold going through the children's home, and he probably caught a bad strain of it. It always happened. His immune system seemed to have dissolved since his hospitalization; he never got through a month without getting bedridden for at least a weekend. He had missed so many days of school being sick the first quarter, he was nearly expelled. He should never have studied that late into the night, but he didn't want to forced into primary school classes… it would have been so embarrassing…

"Harry? Can you hear me?" the hand was back, lightly cupping his cheek.

James shifted wearily, feeling as if a heavy weight was pushing him down. Slitting his eyes open, James watched the shadows move above him through a fever induced daze. The face that hovered beside him was blurred, filtered through a film of water and fog. _Why was he staring down at him? Was he lying down? _James squinted, trying to recall when he was placed under the covers, but his mind came away blank.

"… very high fever. He needs medical potions…"

A splash of water sluggishly drifted to his ears; the icy sensation on his forehead came as a shock. Stifling a gasp, he stiffened when he felt the moist water soaking his hair. _It was cold…_ James blindly tugged at it, trying to peel it from his forehead, but a hand gently caught his wrist and held it.

"It's okay. Stay still…"

James tried to protest. The cloth was too reminiscent of the acidic medical gauze: sticky and coarse. They stunk like something rotten, and no matter how longer he bore them, he could never get used to them. Weakly, he tried to push cloth away… push it away and tell the stranger that it didn't matter… but the pounding in his head slowly became deafening and he had to draw back into darkness to escape. 

The first layer of bandages peeled away like caked blood, crumbling at his finger tips. It was crisp and stiff, the smell of disinfectant fading from the yellowing cloth. The cuts had sealed and settled on his flesh, but now, clear white pus was seeping through the lacerations. 

  
James gritted his teeth, straining his left arm to give the fabric another tug. It fell lose from his ribs, pooling on the floor in front of his bare feet. Drawing a ragged breath, he bit his lip to muffle a gasp of shocked pain. He sank against the sink heavily, drawing deep, steadying breaths as the gashes in his sides pulsed and flamed. He could feel a sticky fluid oozing from the tender cuts, violently jarred as he ripped the bandage away. 

  
// _'Did you see those cuts? That poor kid was tortured…'_ \\ 

  
God, his ribs hurt. If it wasn't for the novocain, he'd be kneeling on the floor. James held his breath in an attempt to move his sides as little as possible, but that only made his lungs itch. Blinking away tears, James leaned his weight against the sink and straightened. 

  
// _'… parents abandoned him, that's what I think. Why else would there be not one file even remotely related to his? Just think…'_ \\ 

  
A pale and gaunt face of a boy stared back at him, with hair so deep brown, it was almost black. The unruly mop on his head was a sharp contrast to the rest of his face, looking as if someone had drowned him in bleach but neglected to treat his hair as well. His eyes were an odd shade of green. James touched the corner of his blind eye cautiously, and the mirror imitated his action. 

  
// _'… no one wanted him. I wonder why? He's a good kid, very quiet…'_ \\ 

  
It was the first time he saw his reflection; James had only managed to catch glimpses of himself on polished metal or plastic. But the unfamiliar image that stared back at him only made him more unsettled. _Was this what I'm supposed to look like?_ He didn't remember. James' gaze slowly lowered. He had to grip the sink to keep from staggering. 

  
It was disgusting. 

  
There was no other word to describe the scarred flesh on the completely wasted frame. _Is this my body?_ It should belong to a monster, or maybe a half rotten corpse buried under the ground, but not to him. James felt his stomach churning nauseatingly as he stared into the mirror, but couldn't bring himself to turn away.

  
Mats of brownish red and clear yellow caked his skin in handfuls, tracing the long gashes that crisscrossed his sides. It looked as if someone had attempted to play tic tac toe on him with an ice pick, and with more than one game. Right above his heart was a mass of cuts so numerous, the area seemed skinned. Seventeen parallel lines were carved across his abdomen, reminding him oddly of the light that streamed through the window binds. Lines crisscrossed his arms, raw and deep, and James felt sick just trying to count. Angrily, he gripped the edge of the sink and wondered why his eyes stung.

// _'… most ridiculous tattoo on his back… don't think the laser can completely get rid of it. It'd leave a rather large mark, and I don't think his body could take more damage for some time…' _\\

  
There was a curved cut that seemed especially deep, stretching from his collar bone to his chest, and then weaving up to his shoulder, onto his arm, looping around in the mockery of some sort of jewelry or decoration. It curled around his right arm, melting into a thick gash that stood, livid above his elbow. 

  
James rotated his arm as much as he dared. The cut was reflected on the other side. Whoever cut him had a blade long enough to travel through his arm. Although, James mused with some sadistic amusement, it only needed to be three inches right then. His limb was a drained protrusion of bone and skin; James could wrap his left hand around his entire upper arm with ease. 

// _'… it's amazing he's alive. Did you hear the doctors talking? He had so many close calls the first few weeks… ' _\\

  
James didn't need to be told that his right arm was going to be useless. His bones had been shattered beyond repair. The nerves had been sheared into pieces. He couldn't even move his right thumb. 

  
As if in a daze, James let his gaze linger on it, traveling down the pale and misshapen limb in some sort of morbid fascination. There were teeth marks on his wrist, imprints of fingernails on his forearm. It looked as if someone had clawed at it, as if digging for a vessel or a vein and ruthlessly tearing out sinews. James lifted his wrist to his face and placed the joint in his mouth. The groves of his teeth matched perfectly. 

// '… _poor thing. His family just left him alone…'_ \\ 

  
Gingerly, James sank to the floor and just focused on breathing.

  
  


"… be better soon. Drink this, Harry…" that voice molded with his memory, and for a moment, James couldn't tell it apart from his past. There was a cup held to his lips and an arm around his shoulders gently lifting him up, but he was too dazed to notice. 

Something was pressed to his mouth. James spluttered, fighting the urge to retch at the nauseating sweet fluid washing down his throat. _What was this?_ James tried to splat it out but someone seemed to be holding his head, and… and… 

James felt himself relaxing. It was becoming hard to be aware of anything else.

Sirius whispered soothing, incoherent phrases as he steadied the boy against his shoulder. Sirius refilled the cut with faintly glowing potion and held it to Harry's lips again, but even feverish, the boy tried to struggle. 

"No…" Harry's young features were knitted in a deep frown. He seemed barely conscious as he shifted away.

"Try to drink this; it'll help with your fever," Sirius insisted, shifting to sit on the four poster beside the boy.

Carefully, Remus pressed his hand against Harry's forehead and wearily shook his head. "His temperature's still rising."

He wished he felt half as calm as he sounded. 

It was too much of a shock… everything that happened within the last six hours had been a shock. What he had spent a year trying to overcome was flipped in a matter of minutes, and Remus found himself floundering in still water. It was better than what had happened in the Shrieking Shack three years ago, but only barely… he could never get used to this.

He tried to ignore the boy's painfully slender arms as he disentangled the blankets from his shoulders. _This shouldn't have happened. Harry should never have lost his memories and he should never have stayed in an orphanage… _

Remus felt hollow as he brushed tendrils of hair from the boy's feverish face. Was it right to feel so empty? Remus could barely absorb what had happened, much less digest the news. He still had trouble imagining that Harry was alive. If it had been Harry's body they found, it would have been easier. They had been bracing themselves for it for a year, but to know that Harry was alive a well, albeit memory-less, Remus wasn't sure how he should react. _Relieved, happy… but torn all the same. Why hadn't they discovered him sooner?_

"He won't drink." Sirius whispered, hand hovering indecisively on Harry's shoulder.

"He'll be fine. It's only a fever… Could you fill an ice bath, Sirius?" Remus softly asked. 

Remus' expression darkened as he examined the oversized, over washed pajamas hanging like a sack on him. With a heavy sigh, Remus began to gently unbutton the boy's shirt; Harry had the graying rag buttoned to the collar, stiff and uncomfortable to sleep in, and nearly every single button was mismatched. When Remus' fingers brushed Harry's neck, he gave a startled cry of protest.

Frowning weakly, he batted at Remus' hands. He seemed too far gone to even understand his own actions.

Sirius was instantly on his feet, brushing Remus aside and pulling the blankets back up to Harry's chin. 

"It's okay," Sirius said agitatedly. "Just let him be."

Remus held his breath. Sirius' tone was pure concern, and for a moment, Remus wondered if Sirius had accepted the Harry's previous words, or rather it had not completely sunk in. 

"The fever should pass by itself," Remus noted, pressing his hand to the boy's forehead again. "But I don't think we should risk it. Harry doesn't look…" _… like he'd take the strain. He'd be bedridden for at least half the week._

Remus grimaced. Harry was pale and thin enough to rival him on the days after the full moon; the feverish flush to his cheeks was actually making him look healthier. It had to be wrong.

"Do you have any potions?"

"The stock you brought last time is downstairs," Sirius murmured distractedly. "I'll get them for Harry."

"No," the boy slurred out weakly in protest. "'m not… I'm James…"

They probably all flinched at that simple statement. Sirius sank heavily onto the edge of the bed and his shoulders sagged in defeat.

Half wary and half frightened of what he would see in Sirius' face, Remus kept his gaze on Sirius' scarred hand resting beside Harry's shoulder and then to the silvers of gray tipping the roots of his black hair. _He should tell Sirius that it would be alright; he must be feeling so defeated… _but the shock was so recent, Remus couldn't even deal with his own shock, much less Sirius'.

_He needed to get away and think… go to someplace quiet…_

"Sirius, I'm going to Hogwarts. Dumbledore needs to know of this," Remus whispered to his friend's back. He didn't even twitch. Something about Sirius' posture made it painfully obvious how close he was to snapping; Remus tentatively touched his shoulder. "This is hard for all of us, Sirius, especially Harry. Please, stay calm."

"Stay calm?" Sirius echoed with bitter disbelief. He sharply turned, and Remus flinched at the haggardness in his face. "Harry lost his memory. He spent a year in an _orphanage_, and you tell me to stay calm? You…" his words trailed off into a frustrated sigh. Sirius' gaze traveled the sleeping boy, huddled under the covers. "How do you do it?" he asked after a heavy silence.

Remus swallowed, his throat very dry. "What?"

Sirius gritted his teeth. "Act like that. After Harry said all of those things, you still act like that. After he disappeared last year, you still acted like that. Like it doesn't _hurt_ you…" he fell silent.

Remus had to struggle to keep himself silent. 

How could Sirius think that he didn't care? Did he have any idea how much it pained him, and how hard he tried to hide it to reassure others? 

Remus looked away, trying to compose himself. It wouldn't do to lose control now. Sirius had a bout of anger locked in him, struggling to burst free. And Remus didn't want to face him when it did.

"I'm not going to argue with you, Sirius," Remus said quietly. "This isn't the time."

"No." Sirius sounded very tired.

"Harry's ill. We still need to know what's wrong. There are still so many things unexplained. Harry's lost his memory. It can't be normal…" Remus trailed off into silence, carefully avoiding Sirius' gaze. He understood and sympathized with Sirius' misplaced frustration but felt pained all the same. 

Sirius ran his fingers through his tangled hair in a gesture of frustration. "Just go," he ground out.

*


	9. persistence of unwelcome relevations

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers. 

a/n the scene was similar to the last. The revision wasn't as extreme here as in some other chapters.

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter eight - persistence of unusual revelations

_According to Einstein's theory of relativity ( E = mc^2 ), as a body approaches the speed of light, it becomes more massive. _

_How does that happen? I mean, does that mean if I fly close to the speed of light, I suddenly grow an extra arm? Sprout green eyebrows? Get fatter? Become a black hole and vacuum everything in close proximity? _

_Doesn't that go against the law of conservation of energy that matter, like energy, cannot be created or destroyed? _

_Maybe as you travel at high speeds, you have a larger gravitational force and bugs begin to stick to you, giving you more mass. Or maybe you get crushed as you fly, but at the speed and things begin to get mashed up with you, giving you more mass and at the same time, making you a lump of squished guts._

_What happens if you fly faster than the speed of light (it's theorized to be impossible, but no one has tried it yet to see, so I say it is. Blah on anyone who tries to say otherwise)? It's speculated that the path then becomes circular, and that you actually start traveling back in time and go slower. I disagree._

_James' Theory of Relativity © JM_

_1st Law: An object can fly at any speed it pleases, as long as it can get there in the first place._

_2nd Law: As an object approaches the speed of light, it doesn't become more massive, but rather more compact. The forces around it draw it onto a central axis and compresses it into a smaller size, making it not more massive but more dense._

_3rd Law. As an object reaches the speed of light, time takes on the structure of a logarithmic graph. Therefore, no matter how quickly an object travels, at or past the speed of light, time remains constant and goes neither forwards nor backwards._

_4th Law: Will is a dork._

_5th Law: James is the supreme ruler of the universe. [insert Darth Vader theme] [insert deep, nasal breathing] [insert deranged cackling]_

_I'm hungry…_

_- James [June 1st ][ St. John's Library ]_

Remus eased open the Hogwarts doors with his thoughts far away. His robes hung heavy with rain around his ankles and it sloshed against the stone floors as he stepped into the castle. Purposely letting his pace lag, Remus walked slowly towards the headmaster's office.

Sometime during the trek to Hogwarts from his apparation point, he would have to draw his thoughts together and give the headmaster a coherent account of what had transpired. But Remus still felt a numbing sensation of detachment. The series of unlikely events pressed one against the other, just hours apart, left him disoriented and weary. It felt days since he last sat down and actually rested.

Harry was alive, unhurt, and safe. He lost his memory, but all that mattered was that he was _alive_. The relief Remus felt from just that realization was enough to spread to nearly drown him in relief. Though their reunion was on anything but friendly terms, Remus couldn't bring himself to be disappointed. He had never even considered the possibility of ever seeing Harry again a few weeks after Voldemort's body was recovered; what had happened was a gift.

Instead, only hours after Harry's return, Remus found himself wondering how Sirius would absorb the news rather than how Harry would readjust. Perhaps the notion that Harry had lost his memory hadn't completely sunk in. But at the moment, he couldn't seem to think of anything else. He knew Sirius and he understood how he thought, but Remus couldn't even begin to imagine how he would react to something like this. 

But there was very little he could do. Sirius would not accept his help. Remus frowned.

There were times Sirius angered him so much Remus wanted to leave him behind, or grab him by the shoulders and scream himself hoarse. He wanted to drag out the disease that infested in his mind, but at the same time, Remus knew it was completely beyond him. Sirius was falling apart and there was nothing he could do.

A year ago, Sirius had Peter and Harry to cling to, but they were both ripped away overnight. Strange, how a fourteen year old boy Sirius had exchanged just six letters with and met twice face to face could snap him like that. Sirius never knew Harry. It was what not who he had lost that was devastating to him; Harry was the godson Sirius could never have.

Azkaban had caught up with him; Remus could see it in his face. He had watched Sirius deteriorate all last year, but when he tried to drag Sirius away from it all, Sirius just lashed out at him.

Months after Harry's disappearance, Remus had been ready to step ahead and leave what had happened behind, but Sirius lingered and moped. Remus had encouraged, lectured, and tried everything short of pleading to convince Sirius to do _something _for once other than lock himself away. James and Lily's deaths had taught Remus how to avoid the past, but Azkaban kept Sirius fixated over it. Whatever Remus said only divided them further. Perhaps it was in his character or Sirius' imprisonment, but Sirius cling to his guilt like it was some sort of twisted obligation. 

And Sirius hated Remus' reasons. He seemed to feel betrayed by Remus in some way, as if he had expected Remus to mourn with him over their loss, but Remus didn't cling as fiercely to things as Sirius did. He hadn't expected that Sirius would hold that against him.

They no longer understood each other, or did they at all? It had been too long and they both had changed so much. Their friendship was crumbling; it had been for years. But Sirius was an open wound on his back; he couldn't move without flinching in pain. No matter how angry Remus was at his friend, he couldn't leave him behind. He was afraid to turn away only to find his last friend fallen and beyond help. 

At the password, the gargoyle pranced aside to allow him entrance to the darkened corridor behind it. He hesitated briefly before the door to Dumbledore's office before soundlessly slipping inside.

Dumbledore didn't look up when his former pupil stepped inside the office, seemingly enraptured by the thin wand between his wizened fingers. Fawkes gave in greeting, but the office still felt oppressively silent. Remus crossed the room in silence and paused behind his desk, suddenly unsure of what to say.

It felt awkward, watching the headmaster's stooped shoulders and wizened hands, when he could remember a similar time, a year ago, when the same man exuded a firm strength. But during the week of Harry's sudden disappearance, Remus had watched as wrinkles deepened and spread across his wizened face; overnight, he seemed to age. All pretenses had been stripped away during those weeks, and all of Dumbledore's shortcomings became painfully evident.

Dumbledore's presence was no longer reassuring, but perhaps that was only his own perspective. In Remus' eyes, Dumbledore no longer commanded the same power and respect as the man who welcomed him to Hogwarts as a student. 

"How is he?" Dumbledore abruptly whispered. His voice was hoarse and dry with exhaustion. 

Remus lifted his eyes the met Dumbledore's briefly in surprise. "Albus, you knew?" 

Faint amusement flickered in the headmaster's eyes, and he seemed almost to smile. "I assumed, when you said you left Sirius alone, that he'd do something like this. Tell me, how is Harry?"

He was silent for a noticeably long length of time. 

"He is alright. Harry is… unhurt." Remus hesitated, painfully aware of the uncertainty on his face. It felt strange to speak the boy's name so frequently in the past few hours.

Dumbledore straightened in his chair and stare at his former pupil piercingly. "Remus, if Harry were perfectly fine, you would never have rushed into my office at this hour. What is wrong with him?"

Remus hesitated again. Unable to meet the headmaster's eyes, he watched the phoenix instead. "Harry spent a year in a children's home. He… Harry lost his memory," and cringed at how blunt and cold those words sounded to his ears. "He does not remember anything; he couldn't recognize us."

Remus had tried to envision the headmaster's reaction previously, but the soft, pensive sigh was completely unexpected. He had expected a much more obvious response, but Dumbledore only tensed invisibly in his chair and clenched the battered wand in his hands. Remus looked away. 

"But he is a normal boy," Dumbledore suddenly whispered.

"He is," Remus answered, wondering what exactly the headmaster meant by the vague question. "I don't know any details about his life. Harry was rather preoccupied the entire time, and we didn't ask him many questions." Nor did they pause to explain anything to the amnesiatic boy; Remus sighed somewhat guiltily. 

Dumbledore was still. "Is he well?" he asked with a carefully reigned urgency.

"He's feverish. But that's all, I believe," Remus paused, recalling the image of his friend's son and former pupil, and grimaced. "Harry was living in a children's home; I wouldn't be surprised if he had caught the illness from other children days ago. His reaction was rather severe." 

"I need to see him," Dumbledore whispered. "Perhaps Poppy should as well."

Remus inclined his head, distracted. _Does Harry even know about magic?_ Suddenly, everything seemed far more complicated. "Not too many confrontations," he hesitantly began. "I think Harry's overwhelmed at the moment."

Dumbledore's expression softened, and he gently placed the wand on his desk as if it was fragile glass. _Harry's wand_, Remus realized. He tried to remember the thinner, smaller hand in place of the headmaster's bony and wrinkled hands, grasping a polished wand, but it was impossible. Harry's wand had burnt beyond repair; red spots of the phoenix feather peaked from the cracks lining the surface. Remus dropped his gaze with a shudder.

"This will be hard on everyone, on Harry in particular. Remus, try to reassure Harry as much as you can. He is no longer an impressionable eleven year old boy. The past year would have no doubt changed him. Tell him what you can, but not too much and not too quickly. Give Harry time to recover."

"He calls himself James," Remus quietly said.

Dumbledore lifted his head abruptly. Remus wasn't sure whether he was unnerved that Dumbledore reacted more strongly to that news than Harry's memory loss. 

"Does he?" Dumbledore said tightly; his hands trembled. "James…"

"It's too similar to be a coincidence."

"Perhaps it isn't." 

A heavy expression passed over Dumbledore's face, and tapped his fingers against his desk thoughtfully. 

"What could have caused his memory loss?" Remus whispered, seemingly to himself. 

Dumbledore sighed. For a long moment, he said nothing.

"It's rather peculiar…" Dumbledore admitted. "Voldemort could not have cast that spell. It's not reasonable. When the most powerful Dark Wizard in history is dying, he uses a spell with the complexity of the killing curse in the last effort for revenge. It could have been an opportunity to kill Harry, but instead, he offers him what that could almost be a gift." 

Remus glanced at Dumbledore sharply. "A gift?"

Dumbledore sank back in his chair and closed his eyes with weariness. "Not in that sense." 

Remus shook his head. "I know what you mean, Albus." 

Dumbledore drew a shallow breath and fell silent again, oddly subdued. Remus wasn't sure whether to be worried or exasperated, but his thoughts were too distracted for him to concentrate. He was eager to go back to Black Manor.

"Nothing that can be concluded yet," Dumbledore said finally. "There are so many things about that battle that still remains unclear."

"But it could be urgent," Remus said, more forcefully than he intended. "If it was Voldemort who caused his amnesia, but he had intended to kill him, then Harry's memory loss could be the result of another spell altogether. There are curses that can be hidden for years before manifesting itself, and the memory loss is only a side effect. It could have been a dark curse; Harry could be dying." 

"That thought had crossed my mind," Dumbledore admitted softly. 

_Then you should have said it; how could you look so calm? _ Remus turned sharply away, and pressed the palms of his hands together in agitation. Dumbledore's persistent silence was aggravating. He understood why the headmaster kept most of his thoughts to himself— Dumbledore needed to keep up the appearance of calm stability to his students and to his supporters, but Remus was still frustrated. Dumbledore was fallible, and Remus didn't want to face those consequences a second time.

Dumbledore stood with a heavy sigh, his hands folded on his desk and his eyes pale with age. Not for the first time, Remus wondered about the strength of resilience he possessed to watch so many of his students suffer and die yet still be able to possess such confidence.

"I need to see him," Dumbledore said heavily. "There are hundreds of charms that have that same effect; each candidate is just as likely as the other. But at the moment, there is nothing we can do."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. As Remus listened to the portrait slide shut behind him, he could feel the relief from Harry's return dying like smothered flame. The initial shock faded, leaving him with a hollow sense of unease and apprehension. What had happened in the days following the third task? How did Harry lose his memory? _ What exactly happened?_

Remus retraced his path to the main doors, deep in thought. A window overlooking the forests caught the corner of his eye and, feeling a desperate need for fresh air, he paused to rest his forehead against the window plane. But nothing felt soothing. Nothing made sense. Voldemort could not have cast a memory charm, but neither could a Death Eater. All of them had been apprehended at the graveyard outside the Riddle House. Harry's present condition was Voldemort's doing, Remus was certain, but it must not have been a memory charm, but some deeper and darker curse. But if that were true, then a year would be sufficient for the effects of any curse to be apparent, and yet…

Remus clenched his hand in frustration. So many things were unexplained, but he didn't know who could answer them. Harry couldn't -- his memories were gone. But with his incoincidental name, Remus wondered how much Harry unconsciously knew. _But no, they knew too little about Harry to come to any sort of conclusion._

"Professor Lupin?" 

Remus started. He spun around, surprised. 

"Cedric," Remus replied; he struggled to regain his composure but his unease doubled and logged like a rock in his throat. _Of all the people to find me…_

The man, still a boy really, stepped forward hesitantly into a patch of flickering torchlight. He nervously held the handle of his broom; Remus' similar awkwardness was completely lost on him.

"I'm sorry," Cedric blurted on instinct. "Am I interrupting you?"

His posture screamed his anxiety aloud and his eyes darted to Remus' face repeatedly as if searching for any sign of his unwelcome. 

Remus' expression softened. "No, of course not. I was only thinking. This is too early for your morning lessons; why are you up at this hour?"

The Hufflepuff graduate, after receiving his diploma last year, remained at Hogwarts as an assistant in quidditch for Madam Hooch. His announcement had came as a shock to everyone; Cedric was a talented and gifted student with a brilliant future ahead of him, but the quidditch field held a memory for the boy, and he couldn't bring himself to leave it.

Cedric averted his gaze to his hands. "Nothing in particular," he said simply. "I was thinking about flying for a bit; it seemed like a good idea…"

The rain drummed in darkness, the sun was still hours from rising. 

Remus nodded with a curious glance at his former student. "Yes, but bring a cloak. It's still raining heavily."

That probably wasn't the ideal thing to say at the moment, but Remus wasn't sure how to communicate. The past year had changed everyone, especially Cedric, who never really knew Harry past the point of competition. He seemed to feel a personal blame for what had happened, and held himself guilty.

"I thought you look the weekend off. Did something happen?" Cedric asked abruptly. He looked genuinely concerned.

"No, I was just going to Albus' office. Something has come up, but nothing seriously wrong," Remus said by way of reassurance. He forced the familiar façade of calmness onto his face and stiffly smiled.

Cedric nodded, and as Remus made his way down the hall, hesitantly moved to walk beside him. His expression was furrowed as if there was something he wanted to say but was unsure at the same time.

"You… you visited Mr. Black today," Cedric slowly began. Remus turned to him questioningly, but it was too dark to discern his features. "How is he? Is he alright? It's been a year since… Harry disappeared, and he always took it very hard. I… is he well?"

Remus slowed in his steps subconsciously. He knew why Cedric was so concerned. The boy seemed to feel a personal duty to those close to Harry and suffered from his disappearance. He kept Ron and Hermione company as much as he could, trying to do something, anything, that could redeem himself and buy some semblance of peace. Hermione was very understanding, but Ron never forgave him. When Cedric discovered the truth about Sirius' past and realized what Harry represented to him, he was torn. 

Cedric had a right to know about what had happened. It was his right. "Cedric, there's been…" Remus throat hitched. He couldn't continue. 

Cedric caught the note of urgency in his voice and spun around to face him. "What happened? Is Mr. Black…?"

"Sirius is fine," Remus said firmly. 

"Is he?" Cedric whispered doubtfully. "Professor, please be truthful. Something must have happened to him if you rushed to Hogwarts in the middle of the night. Is he ill?"

Remus fell into an uneasy silence again, debating with himself whether Cedric should know. Harry's discovery was sudden. A small slip, and half the wizarding world would be after the child again, and Remus couldn't risk that. He wasn't sure if he dared telling Cedric, or anyone for that matter. 

"Dumbledore contacted me," Remus answered with a tone of finality. "It had nothing to do with Sirius."

He could feel Cedric's inquiring gaze on him for a long time. They walked in silence and listened to the soft echo of each other's footsteps. 

"Is Mr. Black ever going to return to Hogwarts?" Cedric asked after a pause. "I'm sure Ron and Hermione would like to see him. It would be good for both of them, you know, to talk…" he gestured vaguely with a hand, unable to put his thoughts into words, and sighed.

"He will," Remus murmured, "very soon, I think."

"I'm beginning to think Ron will follow in his footsteps once he graduates," Cedric softly continued. "Hogwarts has too many reminders. He's so disillusioned by the ministry, by our world in general, and the way they reacted to the events of last year. He probably would get away now if he could."

"He's too young to feel that way."

"Harry was too young," Cedric whispered fiercely.

_Harry was…_ He had never really begun living yet at fourteen. He had spent his entire life in the shadow of his reputation else and, unbidden, Remus' thoughts traveled back to the boy at Black Manor, completely oblivious to the life he used to lead. They had much to explain, and Harry was no longer an impressionable eleven year-old child; what if he rejected them completely?

Cedric drew a sharp breath. "None of this should have happened." 

"No, it shouldn't," Remus admitted, "but we had very little choice."

"That's not what I meant," Cedric whispered. "The tournament… Harry should not have died…"

Remus inwardly flinched. _ It always came back to this._

"Cedric…"

"No," Cedric said firmly. "I know what you're going to say. Everyone has been saying it. It's just meant for some politeness, but it's hardly the truth. Apart of you resent me; please don't deny it."

"We all have apart of us that are secretly blaming ourselves and each other for what happened," Remus said tiredly. "But no one can change what has happened, and it's only the knowledge of our failures that is haunting us."

"Ron hates me," Cedric remarked rather bluntly.

Remus couldn't think of what to say and kept silent.

"And Mr. Black…" Cedric flinched at just the thought. "I'm not sure what he thinks of me. The last time I saw Mr. Black—the entire time, he looked at his hands. But when I was leaving, he sort of… glanced at me from the reflection of the window and this look of…" Cedric's voice wavered and he ran a shaking hand through his hair "_something_ crosses his face, and he… he doesn't forgive me. He doesn't hate me, but he doesn't forgive me. I wish he hates me though. It had to be better than that look."

"Sirius holds nothing against you," Remus said firmly, but inwardly, he was doubtful. It was like Sirius to be resentful.

Cedric shook his head. "Mr. Black can't even look me in the eye. Harry gave his life to save mine, but I feel like… I feel like I'm the one who took his life from him!"

Those words delivered in a tone that sounded almost painful. Remus turned away, unable to look at Cedric. 

"Cedric, you've been trying to take on too much by yourself. If you are trying to pin the blame, that we are all guilty for not being able to save him," Remus whispered.

"No, but I was _there_. It had been my duty to do _something_," Cedric said vehemently, his voice trembling.

Remus closed his eyes. "There was nothing you could have done."

"He pushed me aside from the killing curse!" Cedric said sharply. His shoulders were shaking. "He gave up his life for me. You have no idea that feeling… I can't even explain it. It's just this sense of… like I've committed a horrible crime." Cedric gestured vaguely, grimacing. "I don't even know why he did it. I was hardly his friend, but he… There were so many things that I could have at least tried to do."

Remus flinched. "You would have died with all those attempts," he said very softly.

"I am not as important as Harry," Cedric said firmly. "I was going to be some ministry official. Maybe I'd work with papers all day long, or something. It wasn't going be very glorious."

"A life is a life, Cedric," Remus whispered.

Cedric shook his head. "Harry was going to do great things. He was going to make a difference. He was going to… I'm nothing compared to him. Hell, I'm older than him! I should have been the one dying to defend him. Harry had so much ahead of him and so many people who cared about him." Cedric sighed. "Professor, you cared about him too, did you?"

Remus stopped walking. He hadn't meant for their conversation to turn into something personal for him. 

"Yes," Remus admitted after a pause. "We all did. But I'm afraid I did not know him as well as you did."

"You cared," Cedric said quietly. "You came back to teach because of it."

He had enough of that for a day; Remus grimaced. "Yes but there were other reasons too."

Cedric frowned back at him and Remus quickly began walking again. "When you first came back, I thought it was because you were apart of the search and needed to stay close to Hogwarts. But that wasn't it. When everyone gave up hope, but you still stayed."

Remus flinched again, and this time, Cedric saw. 

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's true," Remus sighed, dropping his gaze to his hands. "But I chose to give up too easily. I forgot that there were things we should never lose hope in."

Frowning in consideration, Cedric watched him quizzically. "Professor Lupin?" 

"Never doubt him, Cedric," Remus glanced at the younger man and managed a small smile. "I did, and I was proven wrong. Harry still has much to live for, and I think we should have more faith in him."

*


	10. persistence of lies

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers.

a/n: I am so sorry this took so long!! In the end, I was close to chewing my own nails off in impatience. My muse just refused to cooperate. I think those weeks of vacationing overseas killed my muse even more than before, but now I'm back and ready to go again, after almost a 6 months break. Ack. I'm so sorry everyone!

The Persistence of Memory

By neutral

Chapter nine - persistence of lies

_...brings to question the process in which they charged him. His alleged crimes were not publicized until he escaped from prison twelve years later, and even then, it was only a minor article nine pages into the newspaper. 'Sirius Black is a mass murderer, armed and dangerous' [Weasley, 233], but the article offers no further explanation. Four days later, a second article finally provided more detailed information, remarking that '[Black] brutally murdered fourteen unsuspecting civilians on Misgrave Avenue twelve years ago, the morning after Halloween' [Weasley, 192]. _

_On November first, twelve years ago, no murders were reported. Certainly with deaths of that magnitude, a report would have been filed, but the only accident which occurred matching the description was a gas explosion on Misgrave Avenue. Fourteen civilians were killed on the scene. No further mentioning of the said explosion was addressed in the later days, not even an investigation on the city pipe system was initiated by the government. Why the politicians covered up the accident and incriminated Sirius Black is a mystery. _

_The final close to the case is a mystery as well. Sirius Black was freed crimes in late June of last year, with an article stating in a few short lines '[Black] was framed and thus cleared of all crimes' [Weasley, 98]. For a murderer who allegedly slaughtered fourteen, he had alarmingly little media coverage. And for a government mishap of that magnitude, things were remarkably hushed up. What was even more alarming was that Sirius Black was cleared the day after one hundred and ninety eight people burned to death in a small town in northeast England (whose name was not even mentioned in the paper, beyond the fact that it was near an old mansion called the Riddle House). Both cases were reported to the public in a small article written by the same reporter, on the ninth page of the same newspaper._

_Several times, I had tried to contact Mr. Reporter through mail. Twice this month and fourteen times the last month, I had sent a letter requesting further information on Sirius Black to Mr. Arthur Weasley through the contact address the newspaper provided, but at each incident, my letter was returned unopened exactly two days after it was sent. This alone is not unusual; however, I have begun to notice that my letters were always returned about four hours before the mail arrived. The returned envelope was always set above the mailbox, with strange beak marks along the edges. Either Mr. Arthur Weasley owns hordes of birds and uses them to deliver letters, or all fourteen of my letters have had the unfortunate luck of being dinner plates for pigeons, or…_

_- James [On Conspiracies , a report for Political Science ]_

'_Concentrating hard on your happy memory?_' a man said from far away, sounding forcibly cheerful but unmistakably worried at once. His voice was that of a stranger, but there was something familiar about it; he had heard it before. . 

'_Oh -- yeah --_,' came his own voice; he sounded tense and uncertain, and James could almost feel his trembling. '_expecto patrono -- no, partronum -- sorry -- expecto partronum, expecto partronum_…'

'_We shouldn't have much difficulty with him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his grip… but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?_'

He was dreaming. Or was he remembering? He could never tell the difference. Sometimes, when James fell asleep and dreamt of things too fantastic to be true but too detailed to be false, he could never tell whether it was a memory or his imagination. To him, they blended; his past, his dreams… they twisted together into a warped form of surreality and leaving James constantly wondering…

But were his memories _ really_ his memories? Or were they only vague images he'd seen, and somehow twisted into his own recollections? Were they the things that really happened, or were they merely shadows of his lost dreams? What was a truth? What was a lie? What was he?

_He was Harry… they said he was Harry…_

'Once upon a time, there was a boy named Harry Potter.'

His attention snagged, James extracted his nose from the battered biology textbook and glanced at Will curiously. He was fairly certain the story Will was about to tell the circle of wide-eyed children was not the same one he was reading out of the book -- the title, James could distinctly see was _Politically Correct Bedtime Stories_. 

'Harry Potter was… err… a wizard…' Will hesitated before continuing on, his face curiously nervous. 'He was also an orphan and he… umm… had no parents'

Several of the younger children rolled their eyes. A few others groaned, and James couldn't resist his own inward sigh. Will was not good at this at all.

'He was forced to live in an orphanage just like you and me,' James interrupted, before he noticed Will's sudden desperate look. He set his homework down and folded his hands in the usual manner he took during storytelling. Lowering his voice rather surreptitiously, he added 'He hid his abilities from the rest of his friends, because Harry Potter had certain problems. You see, he was a rather bad wizard. Because his parents were dead, there was no one to teach him magic, and…'

'No! No, you're getting it all wrong!' Will shot James a heated glare, and James was a bit surprised to see Will so annoyed over something so trivial. 'He was a good wizard! In fact, when he was only one year old, he defeated the most powerful dark lord in history! He became a legend! Because he was so famous, some people thought he was only a myth. When his parents died, they sent him to live with his aunt and uncle.'

James blinked, impressed. Usually, it was he, and not Will who had the runaway imagination…

'Then when he turned eleven, he was invited to go to a school for wizards and witches, called… umm…' Suddenly, Will fell silent, and James grew slightly bewildered when Will looked at him, expectantly. 

' Merlinville?' James offered

Will's face fell. 'No! It was… Ho… Pigwarts!'

James winced. What a terrible name.

'And then…' Will continued uneasily, 'something happened to Harry Potter when he was fourteen… something terrible.' Will paused dramatically. 'He died…' Pause. 'I think…'

Ouch. How anticlimactic. James fought the urge to groan aloud with the other children. But even as he shook his head in disapproval, he couldn't help but notice Will watching him intently.

Then Will's face melted into the room, and the room melted into darkness, and the dream fractured into hundreds of unidentifiable pieces before scattering away. 

Awareness had a sneaky way of trickling in when James woke up without the use of shouting or an alarm clock. Slowly, he began to feel the soft sheets that were tangled around his arm, the stiff texture of his threadbare pajamas, and the faint warmth of sunlight that touched the sides of his face. James found himself lying in bed for a long time before he realized that his eyes were open and he was fully awake.

He squinted up at the red mass above him -- James couldn't decide what had happened to the ceiling to make it look that way; he must have missed something serious last night -- and tried to figure out why he felt as though there were butterflies in his stomach. His entire body, James sluggishly began to realize, felt submerged, and there was a strange aftertaste in the back of his tongue that reminded him oddly of sour wine.

James couldn't decide on whether he felt frightened or suspicious.

Something wasn't right. The room was too quiet, for one; and second, he was too comfortable. The crooked mattress spring wasn't poking at him from its usual place; rather, the bed was so soft that he felt swallowed in its soothing folds. Blindly, James fumbled for his glasses and wondered distractedly when his pillow had grown. 

There they were, on that nightstand. But since when did his bedside gain a nightstand? James froze midway, his hand just brushing the lens of his glasses, as a sickening realization came over him.

This wasn't his bed. This wasn't even his home. There was a man who came to the orphanage last night… a questionably sane man that had chased him down a hallway and… oh… no… no!

Suddenly, he felt incurably ill.

Shakily, he grabbed his glasses and crammed them over his face. The room jumped into focus, and James barely muffled a startled yelp at what sharpened into focus before his eyes.

There was a man slumped in the chair right beside the nightstand -- so close that James had barely missed knocking into him when he had groped blindly for his glasses -- with his head resting awkwardly against his propped hand, and his shoulder leaning against the four poster. It was the man who dragged him out of the orphanage that night, though James would never have thought that of the stranger, looking at him then. The man seemed thinner, smaller, as if he had deflated somehow. 

James held his breath for a long moment, watching the stranger uneasily

_He's asleep…_

Seized with an unusual bout of curiosity, James inched forward toward the man. Tilting his head to one side, James peered into the man's face.

The stranger's hair was tangled and unkempt, and he had a beard that looked several days old. His hair wasn't entirely black as he had first thought; there were distinct flecks of white along the man's temples that seemed out of place. He had the hard, chiseled features of someone difficult to cross, and there were wrinkles that lined the edges of his eyes and mouth that look unnaturally old. Even in sleep, he had a weather-beaten look that reminded James of the stray dog that used to live in the alleyway next to the orphanage, before animal control took care of it. 

Mentally, James slapped himself for the rather uncomplimentary comparison.

He did look familiar though, but James wasn't sure if it was from the memory loss, or not. He had seen that face somewhere in the last year… was it in the newspaper? Or a magazine? James couldn't place it.

The stranger's breath suddenly hitched; he began to stir.

James nearly tumbled headfirst to the floor in his hurry to get off the bed.

It wasn't until he was already out the door did it occur to him how unreasonable his actions were. It wasn't like the stranger meant him any harm. He had good intentions in mind when he kidnapped him. A small part of James urged him to walk back in the room, confront the stranger and demand explanations. Wasn't it just last night that they claimed to know him, his family, and his name? He ought to trust them a little; it was only fair. But James felt himself panicking even as he tried to reassure himself with those thoughts. 

He didn't want to be forced into the situation… he didn't want to be in their home, in their territory, under their control. No, he wanted to do things at his own pace, in a place he was familiar with, surrounded by people he trusted. Being here alone, trapped in a mansion located god knows where, caught among people he couldn't even remember made him feel as though he were trapped in an alley with two dead ends. The thought was unsettling for him more than he could even understand himself.

James spent a long time just leaning against the wall with his head buried in his hands, listening for the sound of the stranger's voice and his footsteps echoing through the wall. But there was none. James clutched at his pounding head and wondered if the man had fallen back to sleep.

_Wait, wasn't there another man?_ James jerked up at the thought, and nearly groaned aloud when the spots in his eyes flared in response. The _unnaturally pale and thin man who spoke like a teacher… was he here?_ He hadn't seen him in the room, and the entire place was quiet. Could it be that he had left?

James' stomach joined in protest along with his pounding head. The thought of being alone with the dark haired stranger was more than frightening…

Then, before he was even aware of what he was doing, he was running down the hallway towards the stairs in one last desperate attempt to flee.

It felt like hours just trying to get out of the corridor. The place that had become his prison the previous night was as gloomy as it was large, and James felt his nerves getting frayed by the simple creaking of the floorboards. When he finally reached the stairs, he was close to limping again, and it took clinging to the banister to finally get him to the ground floor (if it was the ground floor.) James had no idea how many stories the mansion contained. 

The stairs ended at a large, lounge-like room and James felt his breath catch when he lifted his head. For several minutes, he could only stare at the rich Persian rugs that hung along the walls, the velvet and lace curtains that framed the towering, stain-glassed windows, and the wealth of china that gleamed in displays about the room. 

Whoever owned this place was so rich, it was sickening.

The thick windows that lined every wall of the room overlooked a span of trees that James couldn't decide whether they were gardens or the forests. They looked too overgrown to be privately owned, but the spots of blooming red blossoms among the overgrown bushes made James wonder.

_Am I even in London anymore? This doesn't look anywhere close to home…_

This thought snapped James out of his daze. Squaring his shoulders in determination, James limped as fast as possible to the door. 

"Harry?" a voice asked in a tense whisper.

Startled, James nearly tripped over his own feet. He jerked around, heart suddenly beating at a nauseating pace as he tried to figure out where the speaker was.

A sandy-haired man stood calmly in the center of the room, his light gray eyes fixed on James as if he were only waiting for James to notice him. James felt his face heat up in embarrassment and then pale just as quickly in renewed fear. The events last night felt so distant and blurred that James had no time to consider how to respond. He wasn't sure if he wanted to anymore. The past was a frightening, unfamiliar thing. 

Slowly, James took a cautious step back.

The stranger continued to watch him in silence, but unlike the other, James didn't find his gaze unsettling. There was something about the way this man held himself that made James more at ease. Perhaps it was because of how frail he looked (_did he have cancer? He certainly looked it_). It was rather difficult to feel intimidated, when the man looked as though a light breeze could shatter him to pieces.

More silence. The stranger didn't seem inclined to break it, and James had no idea what to say.

"Hi," James mumbled, nearly cringing at the way his voice wavered in nervousness. "I was just… uhh… walking around." James winced; he couldn't have been any less convincing than that. "I mean, I wasn't trying to find my way out or anything, and umm…" Oh god. He had to be the world's worst liar. "No! I mean… Oh, I better shut up before I embarrass myself anymore."

The stranger blinked, looking rather bewildered by his rambling. He stared at James as if he wasn't entirely sure if he recognized him.

"You should probably sit down," he said after a long, tense pause. "You were ill last night and you might still be slightly feverish."

James nodded but he didn't move from his place close to the door. 

He had been ill? James could barely remember, but that would explain why he woke up with the strange aftertaste in his mouth and his limbs feeling so heavy. The strangers had taken care of him. Suddenly, James felt immensely guilty for trying to run away.

The man was still watching him in silence. James was becoming rather twitchy 

The professor abruptly dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Par… pardon?" James stuttered, rather startled.

"I must be making you nervous, staring at you like that. I apologize." The stranger suddenly smiled, but it looked rather pained. 

Everything about the stranger was remarkably calm… almost to the point of being mechanical. For someone reuniting with an allegedly deceased person, the professor was acting frighteningly normal. James couldn't imagine anyone possessing that kind of self control; the professor's face was completely unreadable. 

"You must be hungry. Would you like some tea?" 

James had the strangest sense of déjà vu at those words. 

"No, but thank you."

The professor offered him tea anyway, and despite himself, James found himself accepting it. He stared at the cup rather blankly for some moments, trying to figure out why the world around him seemed to have tilted, then righted itself into a whole new angle.

"Sugar? Milk?"

James sipped at the tea experimentally. "Five sugar cubes. No milk."

The professor smiled fondly. "Sweet tooth?"

James grinned rather sheepishly. "It's the donuts. I've had too many of them."

"I see." He patted the sofa close to him. "Please, sit down." 

And James did.

Then, for the next few minutes, the professor went about busying himself with the tea, adding sugar and stirringwith such casual grace that James could almost believe they drank tea together every morning for the past year. James felt himself calming; on an afterthought. the prospect of running away seemed ridiculous. Sipping tea beside the stranger felt oddly… natural… and yet…

James caught himself and frowned. How did the stranger reassure him so subtly? Somewhere along the lines of exchanging nervous glances and curt replies, the professor suddenly came out with the upper hand and James completely fell into the others routine. 

_Was I just manipulated?_ James nervously wondered. _What a creepy professor…_

He waited for the professor to speak again in the calm, amiable tone of his, but he did not. The professor merely drank his tea in silence and paused every once in a while to smile at James when their eyes met. He was apprehensive, James began to realize. The professor disguised it well, but there were subtle hints in his uneasiness, in the way he held himself and the way his eyes darted about the room. Sometimes, his expression would change, and he would draw in a breath as if preparing to speak but fall silent again. 

James suddenly understood.The professor was very good at being calm, but terrible at just about everything else.

Nervously, James swirled the tea leaves in his cup. Should he break the silence and speak? Should he keep silent and wait? There were so many questions that needed to be answered, but James wasn't sure if he knew was to ask. 

James cleared his throat uneasily. "Umm…"

"Yes?" the professor asked, rather quickly.

"I was wondering…" James grinned sheepishly. "I don't mean to sound rude or anything, but what's your name?"

The professor stared, surprised. He obviously had been expecting something much more profound. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten that…" his voice drifted. "I'm Remus Lupin."

Fascinating name, James mused. Mr. Lupin's parents must have had a strange obsession with wolves.

"Are you a teacher?" James asked curiously.

Mr. Lupin's face finally betrayed surprise. "Yes."

James grinned. "I knew it! I've been suspecting it since last night. You act like one, no offense or anything. What do you teach?"

Mr. Lupin was definitely getting more expressive, or was James just becoming more perceptive? This time, he could distinctly see the anxiety in Mr. Lupin's posture despite his unreadable smile.

"Defense."

James stared at the man across from him, trying to re-evaluate his first impression of the stranger. _ A martial arts teacher?_ James wondered apprehensively. _Is he serious?_

"Were you… my teacher?"

"Yes," Remus said simply.

James' thoughts began to flounder. "Just my teacher?" James asked hesitantly. "I mean, there were no other ties between us? I mean, you seem…" _…closer than just a teacher…_

Remus set his teacup down and looked at his hands for a long time. "I'm only a teacher," he said finally.

The room fell into another tense silence, and their weak attempt at conversation sank back in stagnant waters.

"I'm sorry; I'm making you uneasy again." With a soft, almost defeated sigh, Remus lifted his head and looked at him wearily. "If you have questions, please ask them. You don't have to feel obligated to dance around the subject."

Suddenly, the game fell apart. If it had been a game at all. All the time, James had been running in circles at the entranceway, afraid of confronting his past, but Remus had completely flung open the door.

_What was there to say?_ James wondered desperately. He didn't remember what he didn't know; his brain was an absolute blank. _What could I ask? Excuse me, sir, but I know absolutely nothing… so could you please give me a condensed summary of my entire life? How did I get a tattoo like that on my back? How come I seem to know Latin? _

_Why did that happen to me…?_

James couldn't speak.

Remus closed his eyes in resignation. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay… I mean, it's just that…" James sank back in his chair and peered at Remus over the rim of his cup. "All this is really confusing. I hadn't been expecting any of this. I was okay with everything before, even though I couldn't remember anything. I liked my school, I liked my home, and I liked my friends. And then, all of a sudden" – James gestured blindly with his hand – "this happens. It wasn't what I expected. I was too used to being normal…" James abruptly grew quiet.

Remus' eyes had followed his right arm when James had idly waved it, and with a sinking stomach, James suddenly realized the loose sleeve of his shirt had slipped to his elbow at the gesture. The thick web of scars that stretched with the curve of his wrist to the crook of his elbow was faintly illuminated by the dim light, and Remus' gaze was fixed on those grooves unblinkingly. The blood that drained from his face seemed to have drained from his eyes as well; they were hazy, almost white as they watched him.

"Harry," Remus breathed out in one quick gasp. "What…?"

"It's the light," James hastily said. Instinctively, he dragged his sleeve over his arm again; it was only in an afterthought did he consider it probably made himself look more agitated. "The lace on the curtains make these patterns, and…"

"No. Don't lie, Harry. What's happened to your arm?" Remus' voice was unnervingly calm again, but there was a dangerous edge to it that reflected in his eyes. 

"Nothing!" he protested. "It's the light!"

Remus stood in one swift motion; startled, James clambered out of his seat. But the professor belied his thin frame, and caught James by the elbow before he managed to take a step away. James was trapped; his windpipe seemed to have adhered to his spine and he was frozen where he stood. Pale almost beyond recognition, Remus reached forward and slid the stiff sleeve back. 

Remus tensed at the first glimpse of his wrist. James' other arm snapped up before he even willed it, and caught Remus' hand before he pushed the sleeve to his elbow.

"This…" Remus seemed barely able to speak.

"I was bitten by a dog!" James almost shouted those words. "It was a big stray that lived in the alleyway beside the orphanage. I was taking out the trash one day and it just bit me." He wasn't even aware of what he was saying, and the lies slipped out before he could even question why he was lying, or why he was afraid. "It's nothing important. It's just a dog bite!"

"No," Remus' voice was low. "These scars are too deep."

"It was a big dog!" James protested. A distant part of his mind noted that he sounded almost frantic. "I was trying to pull my arm away, so it left all these grooves, and…"

Remus' frown deepened. "These are not animal bites."

"Yes, they are!" With a terrified jerk, James wrenched his arm out of Remus' grasp and backed away.

Remus did not follow him again, though his eyes never shifted from James' face. It was as if a veil had fallen over him then. His features were heavy and shadowed, and darkening with a frightening realization.

"Please tell me the truth," he whispered tensely. "How badly were you hurt when you woke up in the hospital?"

James blanched.

*

A lot of thanks to BellaMonte, my wonderful beta! Her crits made this chapter possible! The end probably didn't turn out so much like the original. When I went to rewrite it, it just suddenly came out and I couldn't take it away again. Urg. A bit too soon but I guess it doesn't hurt it too much.

James' character is somewhat strange in this one. I think… urg… well… I'll leave the bashing up to you. I promised that I will not bash so much in author's notes now that I have a beta, so I'm going to keep to it. Hope this chapter is up to everyone's standards. Thank you for sticking to this story even though I disappeared so long!

As for CoS… I think it will be continued now that I'm back… just… give it time, though that probably doesn't sound too reassuring, huh? Ack. Well…

Thank you for all those reviews even though I wasn't updating! They were constant reminders of what I should be paying attention to, and they were the reason why this wasn't abandoned completely. Can't say I wasn't terribly tempted at some points, but I'm glad you guys all stuck with me. Muchos muchos thank yous!

College has started. But I actually have… less classes and more time. It's amazing. I'm riveling in the fact that I have no roommate. A dorm. No parents. Fast internet. No roommate. Hopefully, this increases my productivity.


	11. persistence of liars

Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers.

a/n: see below

**The Persistence of Memory**

By neutral

Chapter ten - persistence of liars 

_I think that by this century, we have successfully corrupted the idea of happiness. It's come to be something equivalent to the possession of material wealth: big house equals happy owner, nice car equals happy driver, and thus people driving Toyotas are looking at Acuras and people driving Acuras are looking at Mercedes, and people driving Mercedes are looking at Rolls Races, and people driving Rolls Races are looking at the energetic youths jogging in the mornings while worrying about their arthritis. When you're young and poor, all you want is money, and by the time you earn all that money, you're old and wish you were young and poor. The idea of what constitutes happiness keeps evolving, basically ensuring everyone's forever unhappiness.  
  
"Happiness is an imaginary condition, formerly attributed by the living to the dead [and by the dying to the living –James], now usually attributed by adults to children, and by children to adults" [Szasz, 133].  
  
Studies show that the majority of people are fairly satisfied with their lives, approximately 82% in fact, but the percentage of very happy people are significantly lower, a meagerly 21 [Inglehart, 12]. That trend runs consistently through 15 countries, 42 ethnicities, both genders, and all ages between 15 and 65. And contrary to the popular belief that money buys happiness, studies in fact show that the rich, while rather disgustingly loaded, are no happier but actually are more likely to suffer depression and suicide [Myers, 121].  
  
To sum it up, everyone's content but no one is happy. And blahs on you if you're rich.  
  
Bwahahahaha!!!!!  
  
Sorry. I didn't mean to sound bitter or cynical. But honestly, that was tempting.   
  
The myth of happiness has become a sort of beacon; the promise of it is the driving force to our goals. It does loads in helping boost our economy, and it won't be very surprising if one day, someone uncovered a huge government scheme in advertising, trying to convince us poor, misguided souls that we should all work harder for more money, pay more taxes and thus be happier.   
  
As for happiness, well, in my opinion, it doesn't exist as people expect it to. People experience sudden surges of it (the 'wow, I just achieved something wonderful' stage), followed by an unhealthy peak of personal satisfaction (the 'I'm so wonderful, the air around me is saturated with my wonderfulness ' stage), rapidly followed by tolerance (the 'I'm the king of the world but no one else thinks that, bohoho' stage) and acceptance (the 'I want more, more, **more!!!**' stage). But to live in a situation of everlasting happiness, well… that only exists with Prozac._

_[insert smiley face]_

_- James [ April 23rd ][ St. MaryAnn's Orphanage ]_

Suspicion seized hold of Remus' thoughts unexpectedly. In his consuming preoccupation with everything – Harry's return, Harry's memory loss, and Harry's possible future – he had never once stopped to think. Not until he saw the pale lines patched across Harry's arm. Then Remus _knew_. 

Gods, how could he not have considered it before, how could he have been so blind? Harry could not have moved from Little Hangleton to a London orphanage overnight. There were days unaccounted for, the days Harry could not remember . . . 

_One of the most dangerous dark lords in history, starved for blood and vengeance, finally captures the fourteen year old boy who had defeated him… it's a miracle that Harry's alive at all._

Harry's face had taken on the flighty look of someone trapped. Remus noted a hint of underlying panic in his eyes and realized with rising nausea that his suspicion was completely true.

"No, I…" Harry swallowed, thickly. "I wasn't, my arm was bitten-"

"That is not an animal bite." He had not meant to sound so agitated but it was becoming a struggle to maintain any semblance of calm. That web of interweaving lines – Remus' breath caught at the memory – had sliced nearly to the bone. It was painfully obvious where Harry had received such scars, and Remus had a terrifying thought that his mangled limb was just a glimpse of the true extent of his injuries. "You were limping…" Remus recalled, suddenly. "What happened to your leg?"

"Nothing happened to it!" 

Remus drew a sharp breath in another futile effort to collect himself. Clenching his hands, Remus breathed deeply, trying to will away the knot building in his throat. There was no denying it. _Harry **was** hurt._ Remus was not so blind as to not see that. And if Harry's arm was any indication of just how terribly he suffered, then… 

Remus closed his eyes, feeling vaguely lightheaded. 

"Please," Remus began, softly, "tell me the truth. We're trying to piece together exactly what happened—"

"Why are you so certain that I was hurt?" Harry suddenly asked, sharply. His eyes were narrowed, overshadowing his eyes in a strange, frustrated manner that Remus had never seen on Harry before. "I was only kidnapped, right? Why are you so certain there was violence involved?"

Remus winced. "Harry—"

"Come to think of it, you said you thought I was dead," Harry continued. His hands clenched in tight fists at his sides, his shoulders taunt and shaking. "But why? There obviously wasn't a body, but no one went looking. The hospital I was in—" Harry swallowed his next words; the expression made him seem confused and lost. 

Remus was at a loss of what to say, then. In those moments, Harry abruptly twisted his words against him. Remus didn't know how to answer Harry's desperate questions; saying anything would have given too much away and there were things Remus was not ready to tell.

"We were at fault," Remus responded, quietly. "We lost hope too quickly. We should have kept searching for you." That would probably haunt them all forever. Remus held his breath, searching the boy's face again. It was slightly disorienting to see Harry changed so little in the past year—he was slightly taller, painfully thinner, yet still completely the same. But the unnatural pallor to his face made Remus' stomach wrench. "Harry, how long were you forced to stay in the hospital?"

Harry bit his lip until it turned white, while uneasily worrying his sleeve. Somehow, watching Harry's nervous movements, Remus was reminded of his own childhood habit of adjusting his collar and trying to hide that bite scar that stretched from his shoulder to his torso in thick, twisting lines. He understood, then.

His own scars were something he had always guarded closely. It was linked to such a shameful secret… those injuries… they told of all his fears and insecurities, of all the shortcomings he desperately tried to hide, of _everything_ he did not want anyone to know, _ever._ And Harry was so similar, always conscious of his own weaknesses, desperately trying to hide them. His memory was lost, but Harry had not changed. Remus had stepped too far past what their brittle familiarity allowed… _Of course he will not tell. Harry will hide it as long as he could… and have I given any reason for Harry to trust me?_

This realization stung.

"I'm sorry," Remus said again. He meant it more than words could express. "It's hard to remember that you don't know me anymore. It must be very uncomfortable to have a stranger intrude like this."

It felt strange saying that. He had never known Harry intimately enough to be prying at all his secrets, but... he _cared. _ How could he just let something like that go?

"Its okay," Harry said quietly. He sagged against the back of a chair, looking oddly weary and not at all like the frustrated boy who had desperately questioned him just moments before. "It must be strange for you too."

Harry watched him with that strange, unreadable expression-so much like Lily-as if he was trying to peel Remus away at the layers and see what was inside. Those eyes were not the eyes Remus remembered of Harry as a child. But he couldn't be child anymore, not after what had happened to him… _those scars were deep and painful and… Harry had only been fourteen… Gods… what had Voldemort done to him?_

"Umm… is there anything to eat?"

Remus blinked. "Pardon?"

Harry glanced away, sheepishly readjusting his glasses. "I don't mean to be rude or anything, but umm… do you have any food?" Remus stared, completely stunned at the change that came over the Harry's face. He looked so young and so _normal_ with that smile when just minutes ago, the piercing stare Harry had directed at him was close to rivaling Dumbledore's. "I don't mean to be a bother or anything, but I am really hungry." 

"Oh, I'm sorry. I completely forgot about breakfast," Remus said, smiling apologetically. That action felt terribly strained. "I'll see if I can prepare something."

Harry blushed. "No, that's all right. Don't go out of your way… just something instant would be fine…" 

"It's okay," Remus said, reassuringly. "Sirius will be down in a moment and we should eat."

Harry smiled weakly in response, awkwardly twisting his shirt sleeve.

It hurt to see the boy look like so oblivious and… well, naïve. Just by watching Harry, Remus would have never guessed that there were such scars on him, hidden just beneath his sleeves. And the abrupt manner he switched conversation from the nightmarish truth of himself to something so innocent… Harry just seemed so _alive_. There was something bolder about him, more curious and more outspoken. And yet… _he must have been hurt so terribly._

But Remus wasn't sure if he could ask Harry about his scars again, or if he would even believe Harry if he were to answer. Harry had become so unfamiliar… perhaps another visit to St. MaryAnn's was in order, this time to retrieve Harry's files.

He needed to speak to Albus soon. Though, Remus wondered, did the Headmaster already suspect? There was so much Albus knew but never said, and Remus did not doubt that Harry's sufferings were most likely one of them. 

Remus watched as Harry shuffled about in place, gingerly favoring his right leg. So many unexplainable things happened a year ago, unimaginable things … how did Harry even survive?

James desperately wished that there was somewhere he could escape to. Perhaps behind a tapestry or a divan, or maybe in a brightly lit closest-confined—dark places made him jittery, though James resolutely decided he would never tell anyone about that silly and childish phobia—,somewhere, anywhere that would get him far away from Remus Lupin and just hide. 

The way that Remus had stared at him, with that intense look of thinly veiled pity, regret, and pain… James just wanted to crumple. None of his professors, the ones he could remember anyway, stared at him like that. There had been many, many times when he had accidentally pulled up a sleeve or tugged back a collar, but no one had ever said anything. There were discrete glances here and there, but nothing like Remus' barely controlled panic, and… those questions… 

_'What happened to your arm? It wasn't an animal bite!'_

…James had never felt so embarrassed.

Remus had stared at those scars with such a horrified look, as though they were sprouting blood and killing him at that instant. And Remus hadn't even seen the area above his right elbow, or his torso, or his back… _ oh no, I think I'm going to start wearing two shirts…_

James made the decision that he was going to avoid Remus Lupin for as long as humanly possible. The likelihood of that didn't seem rather bright, considering he was stuck under the same roof as him—but for how long though? Was this manor his?—for an uncertain amount of time, but James wasn't sure if he could sit in the same room as Remus without that self-conscious itch.

"Here's a set of clothing," Remus' voice came off somewhere to his right, and James had to turn completely to see him—_oh no, my blind eye, does he suspect that?_ But Remus seemed too focus on James' hands as he handed him the folded clothing. "There's a bathroom in your room that you can change in. Breakfast will be ready in a moment."

"Thank you." James tried to ignore the strained smile that Remus gave him as he fled upstairs. 

_My room? _James wondered as he retraced his path through the corridors. _Is this going to become my home?_ He examined the blackened cherry-wood walls-all bare, though there were outlines of removed paintings-as he passed, a far cry from the whitewashed, finger-paint decorated surroundings of St. MaryAnn's. He shuddered. _It's such a gloomy place… what's the library like? I'll bet it's huge._

He had reached his room without realizing it—it felt odd, calling it that, when he had lived sharing everything ever since he could remember—and distractedly, James tugged open the door. There was a human shape leaning against the bed. James nearly ducked back into the hallway in surprise. He had completely forgotten about that dark-haired stranger—_Sirius, didn't Remus mention someone by the name of Sirius?_—beside the four-poster. James stared nervously at the man by the doorway, frightened of making a sound. But Sirius was still lightly dozing and, drawing a deep breath, James quickly darted around him and made a beeline to the bathroom. Clicking the door shut softly behind him, James fell against the wall and melted to the floor.

He did _not_ want another confrontation. That conversation with Remus Lupin had been terribly awkward—a gross understatement, James mused, but Remus was entitled to some uneasiness as he was speaking to an allegedly dead person who somehow reappeared without his memory and his reactions weren't much better—and James had a bad feeling that the a conversation with the volatile stranger was going to be something short of painful.

James was suddenly very reluctant to leave the bathroom at all. But what was the point of running now? He was in someone else's home, St. MaryAnn's was never suppose to be his home, he wasn't suppose to be lost and he wasn't suppose to be James. His name was Harry and he had a defense professor named Remus and he had lived for fourteen years as another person. James couldn't even begin to imagine what he had been like as Harry. It felt too strange to even consider, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to learn more. _What if I turn out to be a really awful person? What if Harry's nothing like me at all? What if I stop being me?_ But he had fallen in the midst of it all and it was impossible to ignore his past now. He was going to get his life back, but James didn't know what to do with it.

James buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud. _ Why is this happening? How did my life become like this? Everything had been so simple until yesterday morning _

Maybe he was in the adjustment period? Looking back, he recalled all too clearly the first few days in the children's home, and how he hated and despised it. He had still been confined to a wheelchair then, and during the mornings when he'd spend nearly an hour just trying to drag himself out of bed, no one would help him. It was like he hadn't existed—everyone walked around him, not meeting his eyes, as if he were some decoration on the wall that was too ugly to look at. He had almost wished he was at the hospital again; anything was better than St. MaryAnn's.Every single day, he wished that someone would come and take him away. But then he met Angela, then Eric, then Will and learned all the quirks to their strange personalities. Gradually, James realized that people didn't watch himself because they feared they would embarrass him, and everyone was really kind and they did like him, St. MaryAnn's became his home. It hadn't happened all at once, but it had happened. And maybe given time, he'd grow to accept everything…

With an inward sigh, James dragged himself to his feet. There was no mirror in the bathroom, just a cream-colored expanse of wall. He realized he was shaking slightly, and in an effort to calm himself, he drew a deep breath and tried to tell himself that everything would be okay if only he would stop panicking. 

"I'm just being stubborn," James whispered quietly. "They don't mean me any harm. That kidnapping was just a misunderstanding. They mean to help me. Besides, they knew me before."

But thinking of his past made him think about something else entirely, something important that egged him continuously in the last year that he should have thought to ask Remus…

_Who's my family?_

He had been so tormented by just that thought those days in the hospital. St. MaryAnn's dispelled any fantasies he held about it, but though James steadily stopped hoping, he still wanted to know…

He must have had family, if there were searches done for him. But oddly enough, Remus never once mentioned anything even hinting at his relatives. And even stranger, when he had awoken, it had not been a relative but a former teacher who had first spoken with him. Maybe he was an orphan, but no… there was that dark-haired fugitive by the name of Sirius…

_Sirius Black?_ a rather sadistic part of his mind piped up. James grimaced, not wanting to be reminded of that disastrous assignment. With only four articles written over a fourteen year period, he had to resort to wild speculation and ended up concluding that Sirius Black did not exist at all and was actually an extraterrestrial entity that crashed into Misgrave Avenue which triggered a government cover-up. Ouch, his poor ninety-six percentile crashed and burned as a result. But Sirius _was_ such a strange name…

James' stomach suddenly gave a nauseating wrench. _Gosh, what if he's my dad?_

That was an unsettling thought: His dad kidnapped him. His dad chased him down a hallway. And oh no, even worse, he thought his dad was mentally unstable! James buried his face in his hands. This was awful, unspeakably awful…

_Well, I wouldn't know if he is my dad or not unless I asked, would I? _James reprimanded himself.

Squaring his shoulders determinedly, James switched on the tap and splashed his face with cold water. Changing quickly-thank gods the shirt was black and long sleeved, or Remus would be panicking over the acquired skull tattoo on his back-, James took extra care to button the cuffs of his sleeves over his thumb and attempted to flatten his idiosyncratic hair with water. Then he took two steps to the door when his borrowed pants slipped past his hips and nearly tripped him.

"Oh _bugger_!" James slammed his hands against the door to keep himself from falling into it. 

With a frustrated sigh, James glared at the pair of jeans and wondered whose pants he had borrowed. Lengthwise, they were very long—_Remus' perhaps? He is rather tall_—and they were about seven inches too wide at the waist and James had to resort to tying it up with a length of twine he dug up in a cupboard. The concluding result still looked rather precarious and, deciding that he'd rather not repeat another display of the earlier episode, James fitted makeshift suspenders.

He was rather glad the bathroom had no mirrors after that. He must have looked rather ridiculous; he definitely felt ridiculous anyway. With a resigned sigh and a shrug, James slowly opened the door and peeked into the room.

He could only see the fugitive's back. He was still leaning against the four-poster, his head slumped against arm and his neck slanted in a very painful angle. It didn't seem as though he had moved. Quietly, James tiptoed into the room-nearly tripping over a rug and falling all over again-and hesitated beside the stranger. He seemed exhausted and James was reluctant to disturb him. Unable to quench his curiosity— _is he my dad? Do I look like him? Is that why his face looked familiar?_—James leaned over and peeked up at the fugitive's face.

A pair of ghostly blue eyes stared back.

Nearly yelping aloud in surprise, James jumped and backed away. The stranger stood up sharply, grimacing when his back protested. Yet his eyes never strayed from James' face. There was a frozen look of _something_ in them that frightened James with their intensity. All he could do was stare back. 

"I… I didn't know you were awake," James stuttered out nervously. Unconsciously, he had gone back to twisting the cuffs of his sleeves. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

Sirius wasn't blinking. It was like his words had drifted past him, and Sirius continued staring as if he were the only thing that existed. James was unnerved. There was something truly terrifying about Sirius' eyes. They were pale and empty, as if someone had dug two holes in him and there was nothing left to fill them up. They were the eyes of someone who had lost too much and had been hurt too much, and there wasn't anything left to take away anymore.

James fell still, suddenly feeling very much dwarfed by the stranger.

"I—" James broke off when Sirius took a jerky step forward.

He lifted his hand, slowly, as if it was made of lead and he didn't know how to use it, and pressed his fingers against James' forehead. James stiffened. Sirius opened his mouth but no words came out and, very lightly as if he feared James were only a flimsy image that could shatter, he trailed his fingers over that jagged scar then down the side of his face, lingering over his cheek.

James was almost afraid to move. There was a glazed and pained look in Sirius' face that cut him to the core.

James swallowed, his throat dry. "What…?"

Sirius jerked back as if burned and sank heavily onto the bed. It was like something within him had crumpled, and he suddenly caved in on himself. Sirius turned away and buried his face in his hands, breathing hard. His shoulders were trembling.

As he watched, James suddenly felt very out of place, then. Without any idea of what to say or how to respond, the urge to escape returned twice as strong. He had seen his share of emotional children, but well… Sirius was an adult bordering on a mental breakdown… what could he say?

Cautiously, James took a few steps closer and hovered hesitantly beside Sirius' shoulder. "Umm… are you okay?"

Sirius flinched and, stiffly, he lifted his head and stared at James again. His eyes were filling with an unidentifiable emotion and he awkwardly reached forward. In an instant, James found himself caught in a desperate embrace. James stumbled, completely thrown off balance. The arm around his ribs was suffocatingly tight. A trembling hand was on the back of his head, burying his face against Sirius' shoulder and James could see nothing but the black fabric of Sirius' shirt. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have kept looking but I didn't," Sirius' voice was strained and hoarse, whispering a torrent of words into his hair, "I thought you were dead for so long. I'm so glad you're alive, so glad you're okay. I'm so glad…"

James quickly decided that asking who Sirius was was a _ bad_ idea.

Timidly, he gave Sirius' arm a reassuring pat, unsure of what else to do or say. "Everything's okay, don't worry," he told Sirius reassuringly, and wincing when he realized how strange that must have sounded to an adult. "I'm fine."

Gods, he was never _ever _letting Sirius see those scars. Not when the man seemed so tormented already … 

Sirius drew a sharp breath and pulled away, though he never fully released his hold on James' shoulder. "You…" he breathed, searching James' face with something akin to wonder, "changed. You look even more like your father now."

James blinked, completely bewildered as to how he should respond. "Oh," was all he could manage. _Sirius is not my dad then, _James noted with some confusion. _Who is he to me?_

His expression faltered slightly as he watched him, and his hand tightened on James' arm. "Do you really… not remember?"

James bit his lip, "No." 

Sirius' hand fell from his shoulder and he drew in on himself again, clutching his hands in his lap tightly. They were shaking slightly and James suddenly wished he had lied, just to take some pain off of the stranger's face. Cautiously, he moved to sit beside Sirius, keeping a respectable distance, and mimicked his position with slouched shoulders and folded hands.

"It's alright though," James assured him. "I… have strange dreams that are sort of familiar, like memories…" _oh gosh, why am I lying? _"Sort of," James added.

James mentally backpedaled after that admission, suddenly wishing he could take those words back. His dreams were rarely anything like memories; they were fantastic scenes from storybooks. But Sirius seemed so defeated, and James felt so guilty that it was because of _him_… James wished he could take that emptiness out of Sirius' eyes.

"You had to remember something," Sirius said with frightening conviction, "if you named yourself James."

"Was he someone I knew?" James asked, surprised. For a moment, a genuine curiosity flared in his chest. He'd never considered that. 

Sirius flinched. "He was your father…" at once, his eyes took on that hollow, distant look again.

_Was…? My dad is dead then…_

"Oh," James whispered.

What was he suppose to feel from that? James wondered. To feel so detached when suddenly learning that his father was dead should not be normal, but he had never met him, or at least couldn't remember. James had never known what having a father was like, and never really craved it. He had lived in an orphanage for so long…

_Perhaps my mom is dead too. That's why Remus never mentioned any family… perhaps I am an orphan._

He scratched at the twine on the pair of borrowed pants listlessly. Ever since he could remember, he had heard all the whispering about '**_that_**boy in room 203_' _abandoned and unwanted. That stopped bothering him after a while—_you live for yourself, forget what everyone else says_, Will had always told him, _if you can't do that, you must be a very worthless person—_, but to know that his parents had died rather than thrown him away… James was so ashamed to realize he actually felt _ relieved._

James wrung his sleeves until his fingers were white.

"Are we related?" James asked suddenly. "Are you my cousin? Uncle?"

"I'm your… I'm your godfather," Sirius said, hoarsely. 

James wasn't quite sure what he felt about that. James had always considered the role of godfather more of an honorary title than actual applied duty, but Sirius seemed too much disturbed by this entire situation to just be an acquaintance. _I must have been someone very important to him…_ James bit his lip, sneaking another peek at the stranger and quickly glanced away. Sirius was watching him fixedly—not like discreet, cautious manner Remus watched at him, but outright staring at James as if he were trying to pierce through him. James squirmed.

"Are you Sirius? Mr. Lupin mentioned…"

Sirius drew back as if slapped and James fell silent, alarmed.

"Yes," Sirius whispered stiffly.

"You have a really neat name," James noted with a nervous smile. That was an idle comment, but he really wanted to fill up the silence. "You know, the Ancient Egyptians considered represented their pharaohs as the star Sirius. When they died, the Egyptians aligned the pyramid to that star so their spirits could fly directly up to the heavens."

Sirius blinked, looking slightly unsure of how to respond. "Oh."

"Both you and Mr. Lupin have such interesting names," James mused. He was feeling very strange rambling like this, but anything was better than just quiet. "And I'm stuck with… Harry. It sounds like a spider. Like a hairy spider."

Sirius was staring at him again, and… was that amusement in his eyes? "You were named after your great grandfather," Sirius whispered.

_Oh._ Naming children after relatives sounded like a rich family's tradition, though… thinking of great grandfathers made James think of family, and that stirred another question that James had never considered before.

"What's going to happen to me now? I mean, after St. MaryAnn's…" James gestured weakly, then remembered the previous accident with that and quickly tucked his arm against his side again.

"You're staying with me," said Sirius firmly, but his expression fell and he glanced at James with uncharacteristic nervousness. "If you want to. Do you…?" he trailed off into silence.

_Do I? _James wondered. St. MaryAnn's was his home, the only home that he knew and he was being offered a home by a stranger he hadn't known for more than a day… but how could he refuse? Sirius obviously cared very much for him, and he must have too, before his memory was lost. He couldn't throw that kindness back in Sirius' face like that, not when Sirius looked as though he had nothing good left in his life anymore.

"Okay…" James whispered, edgily. Sirius responded with a brilliant smile that lit up his eyes, but James couldn't quite bring himself to smile back.

*

Once upon a time, there was a silly girl who decided she should start writing a weird story about a boy losing his memory and while she was writing, she rather inadvertently made some people slightly insane. So when she went off to amend that, she accidentally made them even more insane. As she tried to straighten out the technicalities of insanity, she went off to read her human behavior textbook to figure out how exactly to deal with insane people but then her mind wandered and went off to Candyland and gingerbread men began eating one another and chocolate frogs began breeding and a blood pop grew a mouth and ate the silly girl's brain.

She went back to working on the story without it. But it was long and hard and took her eleven drafts of the first scene to finally give up and stick with a combination of the eleventh and sixth attempt. In the end, it was still unsatisfactory but she was too cheap to go buy another brain. They were too costly to rent out and her krispy kreme donut muse was devoured by the insane people and nothing would go right for the silly girl and she resorted to tearing out her hair and crying bloody murder and venting her anger out on unfortunate people in her rewrite version of Clawtracks of a Star and made it even more **_bloody_ **and cackled evilly and got arrested for noise pollution and got beat up in jail and other unspeakable misfortunes befell her.

In other words: sorry this took so long. My brain was eaten.

This chapter turned out slightly… ack *beats head* no self bashing bashing, ack ack ack. But anyway, James grows to be more tolerant, Remus makes a frightening discovery, and Sirius… well, he didn't seem as insane as before. Or at least, I tried to make him less insane. I was terrified of the eventual James and Sirius confrontation and wanted to delay it to chapter 12, until I realized that scene was what was holding up the entire story. Well, hope the result was satisfactory.

The last paragraph of James' journal is... weird. I'm sorry. I was trying to have James indirectly, and unknowingly, joke about Voldemort, though it's much too indirect to make much sense. Ack.

Umm… questions in the previous reviews will be answered on ACKisms. Pieces of various stories will be posted there as well.

Christy drew more amazing fanarts! Images from Of Snow, Clawtracks of a Star, Half of Dueling Range… go see! She's a wonderful artist. The links to the pictures are on the profile.


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